


Junkyard Dogs

by acidtowns



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Prison, Dubious Consent, First Person - POV, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 70,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidtowns/pseuds/acidtowns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Autocracy — a system where one leader has absolute power — is the only government that exists in prison. Levi is the current 'Top Dog,' and for years, no one has had the mind to challenge his position — at least, no one until now. Enter: Eren Jaeger, a new inmate with indefinite mentalities and obscure motives. With the power to shake Levi's throne, Eren becomes the one exception of everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pride

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Junkyard Dogs/牢中困兽](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1525994) by [wiley404](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiley404/pseuds/wiley404)



> how do you work AO3. how do you write in first person. how do you just ?? ??? i don't know, but hey, here's my contribution to the fandom. sorry for all the shit jokes levi's going to make.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #1: Don't stare at anyone.

Wake up call is at 6:00a.m. sharp. Roll call is at 6:30a.m. No excuses, no exceptions. If you don't get your ass out of bed in time, you don't get breakfast. It's not much of a loss, though, trust me. Prison food is basically processed shit with seasoning. But it's either you eat it or you die of starvation, and if you don't want to die an idiot, you'll choose to eat.

It's Saturday morning, and instead of sleeping in like normal people, I'm in the cafeteria enjoying "scrambled eggs" — alternatively called "scrambled chicken shit," because the people who make it aren't cooks. The majority of them are there to make a bit of money (which doesn't even matter here, since everything's free with the exception of cigarettes, drugs, and blowjobs). Once in a while, we'd get a new inmate who _can_ cook — but only because they know how to season food so it doesn't taste like human flesh. Those people are usually transferred elsewhere, so the good food never stays long.

The bread makes everything _so much better_. It's stale, so it brings out the ten spoonfuls of salt they put into the chicken shit. And while I'm trying to force this all down, there's an uproar. There's always some kind of uproar, and most of the time, it's some asshole trying to pick a fight. It's nothing interesting, but people still watch, people still cheer. I had no intentions of participating until I hear someone whistle. A whistle signifies a new addition to our unit, and following everyone's gaze, I spot the guy.

The newbie's young — a kid, almost. He's clutching his tray and looking around for a place to sit down. Except there is no place. Prison's a hell lot like a cliché high school setting. There aren't cliques — we're not that stupid — but there _are_ specific tables reserved for certain people, and well, this kid doesn't belong anywhere. I can tell, because when he glances over and sees the empty seats at my table, he starts walking my way.

He has guts, I can give him that, but he's an idiot. No one's sitting at my table, because no one's _allowed_ to sit at my table. I might sound like an arrogant asshole — and that's because I am. This is  _my_  table. My name's engraved into it. But this fucktard ignores all the clues and sits his ass down right across from me. And then he has the _nerve_ to give me a small, oh-so-innocent smile. It isn't even an apologetic one; it's more of a " _Hi, I'm new, and I don't know how things work around here, so I'm going to sit at your table and happily eat this nutritious breakfast made out of chicken decomposition_."

There are not enough words in the English language to describe how stupid he is.  _Clearly_ , I'm sitting alone for a reason, and that's because I don't want anyone at my table. And  _clearly_ , I want him to leave, because I'm giving him this glare that _should_ tell him to fuck off, but he doesn't pick up on it. He doesn't even budge from his seat. He just starts eating. If it isn't for the face he makes when he first tastes the delicious food ( _boy, oh boy_ ), then I would've thought he's inhuman.

It's quiet, and everyone is watching. They're expecting me to pick a fight with this kid — simple means of entertainment, you should understand — but unlike  _someone_  in particular, I'm not that dumb. He doesn't have  _that_  look — you know, the look that warns people of how much ass you can potentially kick. If anything, he looks approachable, and that kind of look shouldn't be in a prison house. The last time we got a pretty face, the boy was transferred to the mental hospital because of the trauma from being gang raped. Looking at this one sitting two feet away, I don't have doubts he'd end up the same way. God have mercy on him.

He also has the look of fear, which could only make me wonder what crime he committed. He seems like the embezzlement type of guy — anything to do with stealing or forgery, because out of all crimes, lying is perhaps the purest. At least, if you're comparing it to murder, rape, kidnapping, assault, and cannibalism.

Poor kid. He's going to be corrupted.

Or killed.

Whichever comes first.

Probably killed, because he's staring at me.

Prison Rule #1:  _Don't stare at anyone_ , because we're all dogs here. If you stare, if you make  _eye contact_ , then you're challenging them.

It's common sense, but apparently not to him. Maybe I should be _nice_ for once and explain how things work around this place, but I would be wasting my time. He'll learn eventually. Someone's going to beat sense into him sooner or later. And that person isn't going to be me. To make sure it isn't me, I get up from my seat and walk away.

About twelve hours later, I return for dinner. As I'm happily —  _happily_ , mind you — enjoying a bowl of blended green (broccoli? avocado? diarrhea? who knows), the bastard comes over.

And.

Sits.

Down.

Across from me. In the same seat. With the same stupid complexion and look of his.

And this time, he  _talks_.

"Hey." Who knew he had a voice? "I'm Eren."

Is he trying to befriend me?

Oh, hell no.

My body expressions aren't that hard to read. When I glare, that means  _go away_. When I don't reply, that means  _go away_. When I'm completely oblivious to your very existence, that means  _go the fuck away_. I don't like people. I've never liked people. There is just something about interacting with them that irritates me.

"Can you, uh .. stop giving me that look?"

I think I heard something. Maybe it's my conscience talking to me again.

"It's kinda making me feel uncomfortable."

Is he being serious? He's in a prison surrounded by people who committed crimes ten times worse than his, and here he is, feeling uncomfortable because of the  _look_  I'm giving him. That's twisted logic. Then again, it's probably to my benefit, since it's making him squirm.

Everyone is watching again, and chances are, they all want to see me beat the shit out of this kid. At the moment, that doesn't sound like a bad idea. He needs a good beating — one that would knock some sense into him. You'd think, with a face like that and an IQ that low, he'd be catering bruises all over by now, but _no_ , he looks fine. There isn't a scratch on him. I don't know how the hell he managed to go twelve hours without getting into a fight or having something happen to him, but he did. I suppose God is kind.

"Um."

"Shut up."

The boy — Eren — flinches, but he doesn't cower. "Why is everyone here so rude?"

 _It's because you're a fucking idiot_.

Prison is the one place where kindness doesn't exist. This is because everyday is a fight for survival, and you don't —  _can't_  — survive if you're nice. It doesn't work that way. Those who are kind will soon find that kindness isn't a part of human nature. When confronted by our animalistic survival instinct, you can either be assertive and kill or be courteous and die. There are no alternatives.

"Are you new here too?"

I can't tell if he's mocking me or if he's blind. If he looks around for once, he'll see that this table is empty. That's because no one has ever been so  _stupid_  to sit their ass down while I'm here. It isn't because I'm  _new_  but because people  _fear_  me. And that's how it always should be. This newbie is not an exception.

"Don't sit at my table."

"There's nowhere else to sit."

Cocky little shit, isn't he.

"Sit on the floor."

"But it's dirty."

 _Dirty_.

Soft murmurs travel through our onlookers as I slowly rise to my feet. There is a change in atmosphere; the guards milling around tense, and all my inmates stand to get a better look. They're all waiting, just  _waiting_  for me to snap.

"Dirty?" I repeat.  _Dirty_ like my criminal record. _Dirty_ like my bloodied hands. _Dirty_ like my past. I hate that word, because there's always a negative connotation to it.

I walk around the table to the kid's side and yank him out of his seat by his hair. The guards shift and prepare to jump in, but I know they won't unless I show true intentions to kill. In all honesty, I could have gutted the boy with the cut throat razor I have, but I don't. He hasn't pushed me to that point yet. Throwing him onto the ground, I plant my foot firmly against his back to hold him in place. He squirms and requests — no,  _orders_  — me to let go. But other than that, he doesn't fight back. He doesn't try grabbing my ankle, he doesn't try escaping. It's a pathetic sight, really.

"Get off. It hurts."

 _Of course, it hurts_. _I'm not giving you a fucking massage_.

That's what I want to say, but instead, I go with something simpler: "Lick it."

He stops moving. "What?"

Christ. Maybe he's blind  _and_  deaf.

"You heard me." I apply more pressure as I lean down and rest my arm on my propped up knee. "Lick the floor."

"Hell no." There it is. His first retaliation.

Too bad it's directed at me.

"What was that?"

"I said I won't." The hesitance in his voice is gone, and he begins to shift underneath my foot. Everyone gathered in the cafeteria is waiting for him to make a move, to throw me off balance, and to deliver the first punch, but I know better. I've been in this hell hole for four years now; I can easily tell who is a threat and who isn't. This kid is nothing but another body to take up space. And chances are, in one week, he'd be transferred out or dead. Those are the only options for his type, after all.

"Do you know what a democracy is?"

He cranes his neck to look at me. "A democracy? .. Yeah."

"Enlighten me."

"It's, uh .. a government ruled by the people, right?" _Ding, ding, ding_. Correct.

"What about an autocracy?"

The answer is immediate. "Government ruled by one person." Will you look at that. He's smarter than I thought. Four for you, brat.

"Do you know what type of government this prison's based on?"

He swallows and diverts his gaze. "There's not one —"

"There is." I take my foot off of his back and reach down to grab him by his hair. As I hoist him upward, he  _whines_ , but that doesn't keep me from tightening my hold. "The moment you stepped into this prison, you lost the freedom to make your own decisions. This is an autocracy — a government ruled by a single person, and that person is _me_." I control everything. The prisoners, the guards, the warden. All it took was a little manipulation and the psychology behind fear. "Do you understand? When I tell you to lick the floor, you better lick the goddamn floor. You don't ask questions." When he nods, I loosen my grip.

"You will address me as 'sir'. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

 _Good boy_.

"Now, kneel."

He looks around and hesitates again. Everyone is  _still_  watching us, and I don't blame them. It's rare for me to go out of my way to discipline a fellow inmate, but he's an exception (he's always the exception, isn't he?). Nevertheless, he meets my gaze and sinks to his knees. For the briefest moment, I consider shoving my dick into his mouth. It would, at the very least, shut him up for awhile, but he doesn't look like an experienced cocksucker. He'd probably bite my dick off if I were to try anything (not that I  _want_  to try anything, fuck you).

Taking a step forward, I raise my foot again and push him onto the ground. He doesn't squirm this time; he doesn't even struggle.

 _Good_.

"You know what to do," I murmur.

"What will I get if I obey?"

I quirk my eyebrow. "You'll get my undying devotion." I'm joking, of course.

Loyalty only exists under fear or human morality. Like kindness, once the survival instinct hits, it's every man for himself. As someone once put it:  _in a selfish world, the selfish succeeds_. You won't see this in the outside world since everyone's blinded by the idea that human nature is charitable, friendly, and trustworthy. That's wrong. People think that way, because they have everything; not once had they been abandoned, not once had they fought to  _live_. They say criminals are the most selfish beings — cheating for their wealth, killing for their satisfactory — but we're only trying to survive out in a world we don't understand. What's so wrong with that?

"What does that mean?"

I ignore his question. "I'm in charge of cleaning around here. The floor is spotless."

"So you want me to apologize for calling it dirty."

 _Precisely_.

"No. I want you to lick it."

He stares at me, but he stares in a different manner, with a different intention. And there's a strange look in his eyes — a look of determination, of strength.  _He's challenging me_.

"But there are germs."

"You're not going to get syphilis from putting spit on my handiwork, idiot."

"I can still get sick," he presses.

"Yeah," I agree offhandedly, "with bitch-itis."

His expression perplexes. "I'm not the bitch around here."

"As long as you're under me, then you're my bitch. Now, do as you're told." I nudge his head with my foot.

The kid narrows his eyes at me, then bends down and kisses the floor with his tongue. It isn't a simple tip of the tongue touch either; he actually licks it — no, he  _laps_  at it. Just twelve hours ago, I deemed him blind and deaf, but now, his intentions are clear: he's  _mocking_  me. His eyes meet mine as he slowly,  _leisurely_  drags his tongue along the white peppered floor. And well,  _shit_. That isn't supposed to turn me on.

"Gross," I say, just in case I look _remotely_ interested.

He takes that as permission to stop what he's doing. "Satisfied?"

"Completely." I remove my foot from his back. "I didn't catch your name the first time."

"It's Eren," he tells me. "Eren Jaeger."

 _I'm going to forget that_.

"Welcome to prison, Jaeger. I'm Levi." And I extend my hand to him.


	2. Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #2: Don't ask people about the crime they committed.

I've always been alone. At one point, I probably had a mother, probably had a father, maybe even a  _family_ , but that must have been a long time ago, because I can't remember their faces or their voices. I know one thing, though: both of my parents are assholes, and I hope they're happy that their son finally found a shelter that provides three meals a day and clean clothes. But whatever. There's no point speaking ill of those who have long been dead to me.

I met reality during my adolescent years. Those were the years when I stole to steal. Those were the years when I fought to bleed. I lost myself, ruined the good name I never had, and adopted another identity. And yet, one thing stayed the same: my company — or lack thereof. I only interacted when I needed something; otherwise, I left everyone alone. It didn't take me long to find out that humans were naturally curious beings. They would pry and probe until you assert dominance over them. Only then would they cower at your feet.

But  _did you know_ , the higher you put yourself, the lonelier you are? I'm like a crownless king, sitting atop a self-made throne. No one cares to reach me, no one cares to  _try_ , and because of that, no one's curious.

That's why, for the first time in a while, I'm fazed when the little shit joins me for breakfast. Again.

I can't tell if he's masochistic or stupid or both, but he has some mental issues if he thinks he's welcomed at this table. No one has sat here for the past year — not a single new person, not a single old. Even the people I fuck on a regular basis don't have the privilege. Then again, I  _did_  help this kid get up yesterday, but that meant nothing (I just pitied him, that's all).

"Hey." I push my breakfast tray aside. "There's an open seat over there." My eyes flicker over to a neighboring table where a group of four sits. One of them is my cellmate, Auruo. He's a loyal right hand man. Gets the job done. Doesn't bitch a lot. That's the kind of person I like.

"There are open seats here, too." The brat — I already forgot his name — lays his head down and groans. "Just give me ten minutes," he mutters.

It's then that I notice the dark bags under his eyes, and I don't blame him for having them. 'Lights Out' is at 10p.m. Everyone's supposed to be asleep by 11p.m.  _Supposed_ , because face it, no one actually sleeps. Some try, of course, but most of us either smoke or fuck. Or smoke  _and_  fuck (don't try that at home, kids). Last night, the prison got a season finale of two inmates going at it like bunnies. Perhaps 'bunnies' isn't the right word, because they were fucking loud. You could hear every creak the bed made, every gasp that came from their mouths, and every slap of skin against skin and —  _goddammit_ , I could have slept right through it if hadn't been for my cellmate jerking off in the bunk above me.

I thought about getting off too, but I wasn't in the mood, which is odd, because I used to be in the mood all the time. Sex is what keeps me from murdering everyone in this place. It's what keeps me  _sane_. But lately,  I've been turning down offers. Maybe I've become soft. Or maybe I've already lost my sanity. It can't be the first, because I don't process sunshine and rainbows. It can't be the latter, because I'm the only one whose brain is not as scrambled as the chicken shit I ate for breakfast yesterday. Even the new guy sitting across from me is insane (perhaps the  _most insane_  out of all of us, because he's  _still_  sitting at  _my_  table).

"Rough night?" I ask, even though the answer is apparent.

"Yeah," he says, and as if I didn't hear him the first time, he repeats it a second later, "Yeah. I couldn't sleep."

"Better get used to it then, Sunshine."  _Sunshine_. I kinda like that. Sounds like something you'd call a twink, but I like it. And it fits him, too. Have you seen how bright his green eyes are? They're like the fucking Caribbean Sea.

Sunshine groans again. "Are they usually  _that_  loud?"

I give a half-assed shrug.

Truth is, they are, and if it's not them, it's always someone else. On some days, we're lucky and they'll finish within an hour or so; on other days, our chances of winning the lottery are higher than our chances of getting any sleep.

And here's the kicker: sexual activity is prohibited here. But that rule is never strictly enforced, because all the prison guards here get off to watching us. No matter how  _straight_  they claim to be, no matter how many wives and kids they claim to have, they all get off to it. There was an instance where one of them watched me give Auruo a blowjob, and  _shit_ , you should have seen the guy's face. He was trying  _so hard_  to hold back, but when I made a show out of deepthroating Auruo's cock, he broke. I remember seeing his hand sliding down to massage himself through those nice, pressed slacks. I remember him biting his lip to keep from making any lewd sounds. I remember meeting his eyes and holding his gaze when Auruo convulsed and came in my mouth. And that itself brought the bastard over the edge. Later that day, he sought me out, and I gave him my ass. He wasted no time breeding it.

Honestly, they shouldn't be respected as much as they are. Prison guards are just perverts who get paid for watching two faggots suck each other's dicks.  _What a job_.

"Did you get off?" I ask. Sunshine doesn't answer with his tongue, but rather, with his cheeks. His face turns red, and the answer is evident. "There's nothing to be ashamed about," I tell him. I don't understand why newbies get so embarrassed when masturbation is mentioned. Sure, it may sound pitiful to fuck yourself, but no one's judging you here because we all do it —  _openly_ , at that.

"Did  _you_  get off?"

He's looking to make me equally frustrated, but he's playing a game he has already lost. When it comes to sex, I'm not fazed by anything. I've done it all. "No," I reply. I expect him to push the topic further, but instead, he closes his eyes and sighs, muttering something about wanting sleep. He doesn't stay down for long, though. At 8a.m., the whistle blows, and the day starts.

Most of us have cleaning duty, and if you've seen a prison, you'll know why. I don't know what the fuck people do, but there's  _always_  dirt, there's  _always_  trash, there's  _always_  something to clean up. I'm willing to bet that the guards contributed to half of the garbage lying about. But whatever. It gives me something to do until lunch time, so I'm in no position to complain.

However, I have  _every_  right to bitch about the little asshat who decided to follow me to my cleaning station. Sitting at my table is one thing; tailing me around is another. I can tolerate the first to a certain extent (and by 'certain extent' I mean this morning), but the second? No. I'm not a babysitter. I don't need any more asses to wipe.

"Why are you here?" The showers are mine to scrub spotless. There were other people here once, but they all got transferred to picking up trash on the outskirts of the building. I don't mind, because they were shit at cleaning anyway.

"The old man told me to come here."

"What old man?"

"The .. bald one with the beard?"

Ah.

He's talking about Keith Shadis, one of the coordinators around here. Despite him having a centrally strict personality, I get along with him. We have similar outlooks on life, after all. The only thing that sets us apart is that he hasn't committed a crime — and that I'm about to commit another, because Shadis  _knows_  I work alone. He could have sent this brat to clean the toilets (which are always dirty), but no; he sent him  _here_.

"You're kidding." It's not a question, it's a statement. "Where did you go yesterday?" I remember him coming in for breakfast then disappearing until dinner. Within the twelve hour time frame, I hadn't seen him once.

"The warden wanted to see me."

The warden.

 _What a joke_.

"So this is your permanent residence?" I hand him a mop.

He grips it close to his body and drops his gaze to the floor. "Yeah." I didn't expect that answer. He still looks like the embezzlement type, but how  _much_  did he steal to get lifetime imprisonment? You'd think that someone as good-looking as him (I admit, he's far more attractive than half the men here, fuck me) would get off with a couple of years, since the jury's screwed that way, but no; from his implication, he has a life sentence. Maybe — just  _maybe_  — he committed a worse crime.

Ha.

As if.

"What about you?"

"Two hundred and fifty years," I answer. Now,  _two hundred and forty-six_ , since I've already wasted four years here. Not that I'm counting. Not that it  _matters_. I'm going to die before my sentence is up anyways. And what are they going to do with the other years? Find my reincarnation and arrest him? The judicial system is bullshit. It has always been bullshit.

"Two hundred and fifty?" he repeats, turning to look at me. "What did you do?"

I don't answer immediately. It's not that I'm ashamed of what I did (I do have regrets, yes), but rather, it's because I haven't been asked that question in a while.

Prison Rule #2:  _Don't ask people about the crime they committed_. Some are touchy on this topic, while others, you're just better off not knowing. For the most part, you can  observe a person and generalize their crime based off of their personality, actions, and reactions. It doesn't matter if you're right or wrong. You don't ask, and they don't tell.

But since he asked, I answer him. "I murdered." That's not all I did, though. Only two people know about the crimes I've committed: the warden and my attorney. The jury and judge don't know anything other than what the lawyers and evidence told them, but that didn't keep them from deciding my sentence.

"Oh." His gaze diverts.

We don't talk after that. That's the consequence of breaking Prison Rule #2.

I begin scrubbing the shower heads, and he starts mopping the floor. An hour or so later, I turn around and inspect his handiwork. He misses about a hundred spots, so I make him redo it. He whines about how the floors are white, so there's "no way you can tell." And yeah, maybe he's right, but that doesn't stop me from telling him to do it all over again. Another hour passes, and we rinse the place down. The fucker gets his clothes wet during this time, which leads him to go change, and  _of course_ , he leaves a trail of water behind. I can only hope he slips and cracks his head open on the way to the laundry room. — Actually, on second thought, that's not the best thing to hope for. Blood is a bitch to clean up.

He comes back thirty minutes later, but I've already finished washing the shower room. It's 10a.m. then, and we ( _we_ , because he's still following me like a lost puppy) walk outside.  _We_  watch some of our inmates shoot a few hoops, then  _we_  head back inside. I feel like a tour guide. To your right is the gym, also known as the worst smelling place known to man because it hasn't been cleaned in three decades. To your immediate left is the library filled with books from the 14th century that reads in a language that no one understands. Coming up is the isolation hall, which I'm going to end up in if  _you don't stop following me_.

That's not all the shithead does, though. At lunch, he sits at my table  _again_ , and this time, he brings  _friends_. Two of them settle in the seats beside him; the third takes his place next to me. I don't know what pisses me off more — the fucker bringing his friends, or his friends thinking it's okay to trespass private property. It's probably  more or less the latter, because I don't think I can get any more pissed off at the kid.

"Wow," one of them — the bald one — starts, "I feel so privileged sitting at this table."

I'm going to shove a knife up his ass, I swear to god.

"You should be." This time it's Auruo who speaks. "We  _are_  sitting at  _Levi's_  table, after all."

There's no consequence to murder here. I can easily —  _easily_  turn and slit his throat, and what will be my punishment? More years added onto my sentence. What a scare. Like I said, the judicial system is bullshit. Giving me more years is not punishment at all. It's more like giving me a trophy for my deed — a trophy saying "Congratulations! We have one less mouth to feed!" They always have the option of executing me, but that's to my benefit. The quicker I can leave this shithole, the better off I'll be.

"So I spoke to my attorney this morning," Jean says, ignoring the other two. "He says I might be able to appeal for parole."

This is the first time I've met Jean but not the first time I've heard of him. His story is well known among the prisoners — not his criminal story, no, but his faggoty love story with one of the prison guards. See, Jean pleads heterosexuality with his marriage to a woman, but it's obvious that he likes dick. To be more specific, he likes  _Marco's_  dick. The details of how they hit it off are vague, but apparently, they are the prison's golden pair. Rumor also claims that Jean's screwing around with Marco to get his protection. It's smart, I admit. Sleeping with the enemy is the easiest way to ensure your survival. That's why I'm fucking the warden.

"You? For  _parole_?"  Auruo scoffs.

Jean bristles. "My chances of getting out are better than yours any day."

"As  _if_."

"Hey, hey, guys." Baldy (what else can I call him?) waves his hand in between the two who are leering at each other. "Let's not fight. This is good news."

Wait. Am  _I_  being ignored?

"But what about  _Marco_?"  Auruo asks, rolling the 'R' in Marco's name.

The corner of Jean's mouth twitches. "What about him?"

I'm definitely being ignored.

At my own goddamn table.

"Hey." When I speak, they fall silent. "If you want to bicker, go do it somewhere else." I don't like being around conflicts that I have no part in. That's because, if I'm tempted — even for a moment — I  _will_  get involved, and the outcome won't be pretty. That, I can promise you.

It's a silent competition between Jean and Auruo then. Neither refuses to leave the table first, and it's becoming increasingly irritable. Jean glares with his lip curled back in a scowl; Auruo looks on as if nothing's wrong.

"It's not worth it." Baldy stands and tugs at Jean's sleeve. " _Come on_ , let's go."

"Three," I say, giving them one last warning. "Two." Jean, the smarter of the duo, grabs his tray. "One." He turns to leave, but Auruo, like the asshole he is, stops him with his big, fat mouth.

"Running away like a  _pussy_ , are you?"

That's my cue to get out. When Jean turns back, I'm out of my seat. When Jean reaches over and grabs Auruo by his collar, my back is to the scene, and I leave. There's nothing wrong with violence; it's the simplest way to settle things, and that's what I let them do: I let them use  _my fucking table_  as a battleground. Hopefully they'll be done by dinnertime.

I bypass Shadis, who spares me a look, then lets me go on through. (What can I say? Good relationships with the guards have their advantages.) I head outside to the courtyard thinking that maybe some fresh air will lighten my mood. It works for a minute or two, but then the door behind me opens and closes. I turn, and Sunshine is there. Fuck my life.

Maybe I can just ignore him. Maybe I can smoke my way out of any interaction —

"You smoke?"

I hate kids.

Especially stupid kids with green eyes.

"Does it look like it?" I light my cigarette and place it in between my lips. With an inhale, I feel slightly better.  _Slightly_.

"You know that's bad for you, right?"

There's a lighter in my hand. There's something flammable on his body. And the desire is there. I can light him on fire and watch him  _burn_. I can light him on fire and hear him  _cry_. Such temptation is becoming the start of what  is considered insanity, and I'm not one to deny that state of mind.

My lips part, and I breathe the smoke directly into his face. It's misty (he flinches), it swirls for awhile (he coughs), then it disappears from sight (he doesn't leave). I take another inhale, and this time, the effects kick in. There's the relaxing feel as the nicotine circulates, then there's the calming taste of its sweet death against my tongue. I breathe.

"Have you tried it?" He shakes his head, and I offer him my cigarette (spit, germs, and all — how romantic). "Here."

He takes it without hesitation and —

Puts it out.

This is what happens when I decide to be  _nice_  for once and share.

"What did you do that for?" I'm not angry, which surprises me, since I had every intention to kill just two minutes ago. "You just wasted a perfectly good cigarette."

He doesn't cower, doesn't even look sorry. All he does is say "Please don't smoke around me."

 _Well, Sunshine, I wouldn't be smoking around you if you hadn't followed me out_. Who does he think he is? Offering no apology, making all the requests? He's not the top dog around here.

"My bad." I really can't stand this kid, so I turn to head back inside. Before I reach the door, though, I glance over my shoulder. "What's your name again?"

"Ah — it's Eren."

 _Eren_.

Right.

I knew that.

"Don't follow me, Eren." And this time, he obeys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i'm having the most difficult time adopting levi's pessimistic / sarcastic tone, but i'm going to do my best and push through! also, thank you all so much for the kudos / comments / etc. you guys are truly amazing and i'm going to cry fo real -- but on another note, a lot of you have stated in the comments that you wanted eren to be badass. well, good news: i have every intention to make him badass, so fear not, the time will come.


	3. Greed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #3: Don't make wrong assumptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter contains some erwin/levi (??), dubious content, murder/rape attempt, mentions of drugs, some blood, and a lot of cocksucking.

Cigarettes are easier to obtain than drugs, because everyone gets a pack at the beginning of each month (courtesy of the government, who wants to indirectly execute us). If you smoke, lucky for you. If you don't, then that pack of cigarettes becomes something with monetary value. You can trade it for drugs. You can get sex. You can do anything with it, which says a lot about how fucked up the prison economy is. People use money too, of course, but what can you do with money if you don't have a family to send it to? _Absolutely nothing_.

If you find the right people — the fortunate folks who have families and short sentences — then you can probably bribe them with money. But that's only a handful of the prisoners here, so don't get your hopes up. The rest of us function on trading cigarettes, drugs, and sex (condoms too, if the person you're fucking has a nasty ass). It's simple to understand: one pack of cigarettes won't get you anything except maybe a blowjob. Two packs can get you some anal and maybe a gram of cocaine. Selling your soul for some heroin is also an option. Those are the standard prices, but of course, people nowadays are desperate, so anything goes.

It's the second week, and I'm already low on cigarettes. Usually a pack lasts me the entire month, but I've been smoking a lot lately to keep a  _certain someone_  off my back. Eren (will you look at that; I actually remembered his name) doesn't like cigarettes, and he finds every opportunity to tell me that. To prove that I don't give a damn, I smoke right in front of him, and away he goes. That only worked for a couple of days, though. Once I began laying off, he came back looking like a pup with its tail in-between its legs.

This is what I have to deal with. This little shit. The only reason why I haven't killed him yet is because he's our new cook. He's not into the fancy seasonings and all, but he makes some damn good bologna sandwiches (elementary, but at least I know what I'm putting in my mouth). And maybe his spaghetti is good too. And his fruit salad. I swear I'm not falling in love with his food; I just think shit tastes better than diarrhea.

He probably gets laid twice a day because of his "exceptional skill" (wanna taste a more  _authentic_  bologna?). But who am I joking. The kid's too busy stalking me to get laid. Sometimes, whenever I  _think_  I'm alone, he pops out of nowhere and starts chatting with me as if we're best friends.  _Hey, what's up_? Oh, nothing much, just thinking about throttling you right now. — Except our conversations aren't that amusing. For the most part, Eren spews out some syllables, and I act like I don't understand English. But let me tell you something: it's hard to get rid of him. Even if I've been ignoring him for the past hour or two, he still sticks around. He's like an annoying flea, and I don't have a fly swatter.

That's why, at the start of the third week, I'm relieved when the warden calls me to his office. The warden's nothing special except he looks like someone from Hitler's superior race. Blond hair, blue eyes. (Big dick.) His name is Erwin Smith, and he likes a lot of things. For example, he likes watching us become animals under the influence of drugs. He likes seeing spilled blood and gaping wounds. He likes extending our sentences to the point where there's no chance and no hope. His name is Erwin Smith, and he's the real killer around here. If you get dragged into his game, then your life is over. Go directly to hell, don't pass go, don't collect $200.

But I don't mind paying him visits every now and then. The bastard's actually nice to talk to, because he's not as idiotic as everyone else. We sometimes gossip about my inmates. Other times, we talk about how stupid people are — or, well, it's more like I talk about their stupidity and he just sits there nodding in agreement. We're not friends, though. I wouldn't even call us acquaintances. If anything, we're more like business partners, and our arrangement is pretty straightforward (which is nice, because I don't negotiate or compromise).

As always, I walk into his office empty-handed. And as always, he's seated behind his desk looking all prim and proper. When the door closes and locks behind me, though, he drops that little façade.

"Levi." He quirks a finger, beckoning me over.

I scoff. "A finger won't make me come."

"But it did last time, didn't it?" The bastard smirks, knowing that he's won. He's always winning these small spats, but he's not winning his own game. I know the tricks he uses. I know how he manipulates. I know him, and this knowledge is what keeps me from becoming his victim. That's why I say  _you can't be stupid here_. If you're a dumbass, you're going to die a dumbass — insignificant and ridiculed. Half of the prisoners are here for the first crime they've ever committed. Those are the dumbasses, and associating with them makes you a dumbass too. It's contagious.

"If your dick was as small as your finger, I wouldn't have come back." I saunter over with much emphasis on how I move my hips (the motherfucker loves that). As I reach his desk, I press my palms down against it and leer forward. "What do you have for me today?"

He chuckles as he moves to unlock a drawer on his right. "Always business-like, I see." His hand disappears for a moment, and when it resurfaces, he has five small bags of a powdery substance. "Five grams," he tells me. I raise an eyebrow. He has never given me that much before. It's always been two or three, because he doesn't want the risk of getting caught, but from the looks of it, he's becoming more fearless (which is completely to my benefit, so I don't complain). I reach over to grab the small bags, but he jerks his hand back and gives me an amused look. "That's not how we do business."  _Bitch_.

"I just wanted to make sure it's not crushed up Smarties." Not that it matters. Some addicts are so withdrawn that anything remotely resembling the drug they crave has a soothing impact.

"You'll have to trust me." Erwin places the five grams to the side then scoots back and spreads his legs. I glance at the small bags and consider stealing them, but what good will that do? He'll track me down and throw me in the isolation hall (not that that would have any dire effect on me). "Don't think about it, Levi." His low voice sends a particular stroke of excitement down my spine, and I look up. His arms are propped on the armrests as he sits there waiting to be served. I usually don't adhere to his sovereignty, but I haven't sucked anyone's dick in weeks, and well, sometimes I miss feeling like someone's bitch.

Without word, I walk around the desk, and he turns to me. I don't waste any time; sinking to my knees, I undo his pants and slip my hand in. As my fingers curl around his cock, I lick my lips, ready. It's throbbing, hot, heavy, and I'm impressed. I've blown a couple of dicks here and there, but his is one I'd willingly come back to. There's just something about stuffing my mouth full that I like. Perhaps it's the suffocation aspect — the feeling of not being able to breathe properly, the feeling of gagging and choking. It's almost like greeting death first hand.

"Come on," he murmurs, running his fingers through my hair in a soothing manner before giving it a gentle yank.

I don't waver. Gripping the base, I lean forward and ghost my lips along the underside of his shaft. He trembles and pushes my head down more, but I don't let my mouth touch his cock; I'm not allowing him that pleasure yet. I want to tease, I want to taunt, and when I begin breathing hot air onto the tip, his hips jerk, and I know I've won. I stroke him, simply and leisurely, and he growls at my mercy. It's my turn to smirk as I peer up to meet his lustful gaze. I torment him there. Like a good boy, I give him what he wants; my tongue slips from my lips and gives a tentative lick to the head. He hums in approval, and like a good boy, I continue; I swirl my tongue around the tip in a dreadfully slow manner and lap up all the traces of pre-cum. I kiss the head again, then I stop. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep his composure; he knows he's lost — he always loses to this kind of game, but I don't let him know that. With my fingers wrapped around his cock and my mouth watering with desperation to pleasure, I ask, "What would you like me to do, Mr. Smith?" I give him the delusive idea that he's in control, and he takes it.

"Suck me," he answers, and like a good boy, I comply.

An hour or so later, I walk out of his office with five grams in my pockets. It's nice doing business with Erwin, because it's all to my benefit. I get the drugs, and the sex is a bonus. The only downside is that he likes coming in me, so sometimes, I'm walking around with his come dripping down my legs. It's gross, and it's disgusting, but I endure it. No one knows I'm working hand in hand with the warden, and it's better off that way. I don't like sharing. The drugs are mine and so is his cock.

News that I have a little  _something_  spreads fast. A day after my visit, I sell my first bag for two packs of cigarettes and my second for three. I'm stocking up on cigarettes in hopes of one day building a wall to protect me from Eren. But for now, I'll settle with scattering them around my bed. If they work like salt, then they'll keep the demon out. If they don't, then fuck me, I'm dealing with Satan himself.

Eren still sits at my table. And I'm still sitting at my table. That's a problem, because people are whispering. Everyone knows my name, but they don't talk about me — that's how it used to be. Nowadays, because of this shithead, people are becoming more confident. They're pulling me aside, they're talking to me. It's as if I'm one of them.

"Go away." That's the first thing I tell him when he comes over. And as always, he disobeys and sits down.

"But you'll be sitting alone." He picks at his pasta then glances up to meet my glare. "You won't have anyone to talk to."

".. Are you fucking with me?" It's getting to the point where everything that comes out of his mouth is annoying (not that it wasn't annoying before, mind you). "I sit alone for a reason." Apparently, I haven't made that crystal clear. What does he want me to do, spell it out for him? This isn't kindergarten.

"Why do you hate me so much?"

I can give many reasons: 1) you're an idiot, 2) you don't listen, 3) you're a brat, 4) you follow me like some goddamn stalker, 5) you're a grade A shithead, 6) your food is actually growing on me, 7) you like putting out my cigarettes, 8) you're sitting at my table, 9) you're a shitty cleaner, and 10) I don't need reasons to hate you; I just do. But of course, I'm not going to waste my time giving him that list, so I tell him "It's because you're a dumbass." And his dumbassery is far more contagious than anyone else's.

He bristles at that. "I'm not a dumbass," he says.  _I'm not wet, the water says_. "All I do is follow you around —"

"Listen, brat." I push my tray away and lean forward. "If you want to suck my dick, just tell me."  _I'm kidding_.

"I want to suck your dick."  _He's not kidding_ , and I'm taken aback. Faggot or not, you don't openly say you'll suck someone's dick, because word will spread, and next thing you know, you'll have ten ugly cocks shoved in your face (men are always so desperate to get a blowjob, it's hilarious). But as always, I don't expect him to pick up on things like this, because he's a dumbass, and now I'm a dumbass for putting the topic out there (told you it's contagious).

Lips twitching, I sit back and fold my arms across my chest. "You're a weird person." I've never met someone like him before. Everyone here catches on fairly quick, but this kid — it's as if he doesn't even care.

"Do you find me fascinating?" he asks.

"Fascinatingly stupid, yeah."

He looks at me, and I look at him. He laughs, and I leave. I think I'll go build my cigarette barricade now and start a revolution against brats with dark hair and green eyes.

But that's not what I do. I have two hours until the guards chase my ass back into the cell, so I decide to take a shower. It's a great idea at first, because I can finally shower in peace, but when a group of three laughing hyenas come in, I realize I made a dumbass move (thanks, Sunshine). I ignore them and go about my business, and usually, they ignore me back, but this time, it's different. They come in laughing, and when they call out my name, I know I can't finish showering in peace. In all my naked glory, I put my bar of soap down and glance over my shoulder at them. "What?"

The one with a stubble speaks up. "A little  _birdie_  told us that you were selling something we want." His buddies circle around me, and Stubbles himself decides to get close. "What's your price?" One glimpse about, and I can tell he's not going to like whatever price I give. His eyes are like daggers piercing through me, and he thinks he has me vulnerable because I'm bare and he's not, but he's wrong. This isn't the first time I've been confronted in the shower. This isn't even the second time.

"How much are you willing to pay?" I quirk an eyebrow.

"How many grams do you got?" He has one of those cocky personalities that I've never liked.

"A lifetime supply."

Stubbles glances over at his two mates, then lets out another laugh. "All right, here's the deal." He grabs my chin. "How about you give us all of your supply, and we'll give you a good time?" I blink, and for a second, I can see him lying in his own pool of blood. I blink again, and the image is gone. "How does that sound, Levi?"

I bat his hand away. "I don't do small dicks."

The lanky one on my right snickers. "He said you had a small dick." Snicker, snicker.

Stubbles grins. "Wait 'til he sees it." He takes a step closer and touches my hips. "Damn, you're just like a woman." His friends snicker again. "Bet you're a good cocksucker too, yeah? Well, I got a pretty big dick to shove in that mouth of yours."

"I'm sure you do," I tell him. "Your dick is so big, it makes up your entire personality." And now I'm just getting mouthy, which doesn't help my situation at all.

But Stubbles's a funny guy. He laughs again, but this time around, it dies off quickly. "We'll see about that." He puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me down. I don't resist. "Look how willing you are. You never struck me as a  _whore_ , but I guess I can see it now." The words rain acid on my pride, but I let him flap his mouth. This is all going to be over in two minutes anyway. "Bet your mouth's watering for my cock, huh? Lucky for you, I'm an impatient man." I watch him pull out his dick and — it's average. The girth's all right — close to Erwin's own, actually, but the length isn't anywhere near. Not impressive at all. "Here." He pushes the head against my lips, and I open my mouth to let him in.

It's low for me, I admit, but I've judged my fight. I can take care of Stubbles's friends easily — they're both lanky and lean — but Stubbles himself is toned, so I have to take him down another way.

His hips move to push more in, and when his pubic hair brushes against my nose (gross), he groans and tilts his head back. " _Fuck yeah_." He pulls out, gives my throat a moment to rest, then slowly pushes back in. I stop him there. Grabbing the base of his cock, I lean away. He scowls, but his disappoint soon disappears as I begin stroking him. I don't tease or taunt as I wrap my mouth around the tip, and while I'm busy giving him the best blowjob of his life, I can see his friends desperately clawing at their own pants. That's my signal.

When they're all immersed in pleasure, I pull back until my lips rest around the head of Stubbles's cock. Then I bite.  _Hard_. And he  _howls_. That second of surprise gives me enough time to swing my leg under him and push him back. As he falls on top of one of his mates, I turn my attention to the other one. Lanky #1 jerks his hand out of his pants and lunges at me. I sidestep him, but that doesn't bring him down; he grabs my arm, I yank him forward. He takes one step and — slips on the bar of soap I put on the ground earlier. As he falls towards me, I bring my knee up, and by the grace of gravity, his chin slams down on it. Something cracks when I kick him away, but I don't have time to relish on the sound.

Lanky #2 grabs me from behind, and Stubbles comes around to confront me. His face is flushed red, and he looks as if to kill. A string of curses leaves his mouth as he leers closer and wraps his fingers around my neck. It's like I'm greeting death first hand — but I'm not giving him the luxury of killing me this way. I reach down to grasp his partially flaccid length, and as I dig my nails into his flesh, he hisses and tightens his grip around my neck. He intends to murder me right here. I know this, and I consider the possibility of me dying because I made a dumbass mistake. I thought he would back off if I claw at his dick (that has worked before), but he doesn't. I realize at this time that he can endure the pain, because he has endured it many times before. His crime is rape, and that's why he's in prison. If I had known earlier, then I would've made another move. Prison Rule #3:  _Don't make wrong assumptions_ , because there will always be consequences.

He's strong, but so am I. The fucker behind me, however, is weak. I lean towards Stubbles, then I rock back. The three of us fall. As we lie in a crumpled mess, he continues choking me. It's hard to breathe, nevertheless think, but I make my move. Turning slightly, I smash my elbow into Lanky #2's face, and he lets go. But I'm still down, and Stubbles is heavy. He throttles me — shakes my neck until I feel light-headed. It hurts, because it toys with my airflow, yet there's nothing I can do about it. I'm slipping in and out of conscious and —

 _Hah_. As if I'll give him my life.

I reach up and grab the fingers that surround my neck. It takes a lot of strength, but when I manage to get my entire hand around one finger, I jerk it back, breaking it. The sweet sound of a bone snapping reaches my ears, and it strikes a cord in him. He falters for a second; his grip loosens slightly, and I take the chance. I lean up and grab his throat with my own hands. I squeeze tighter and tighter and — he fights back. He lets go of my neck to grab my wrists. I suck in a breath, and  _shit_ , air has never felt so nice. Dizziness starts washing over me once more, and for a moment, the world turns. I breathe — heavily, and while I regain my composure, he manages to pry my fingers off his throat. With his grip ever firming, he pins my wrists above my head and shifts to widen the space in between my legs.

"I'm going to fuck you," he sneers. "I'm going to  _humiliate_  you."

I don't panic. My pounding heart is only a physical reaction to the adrenaline. I'm calm. I breathe.

While his right hand holds my wrists down, his left holds my ankle. This is perhaps the best position I can be in, because it's simple to overcome. I wrap my free leg around the back of his neck and drag him closer. When he frees the hand holding my ankle in place, I hook my other leg around him and bring his head down. His mouth his dangerously close to my dick, but I don't let that detail bother me. I fight. I thrust my hips up so that I can get a better hold of his neck with my legs. He grunts, claws at my thighs and grabs at my ankle, but I don't budge. He finally lets go of my wrists, and our reactions are immediate. With his hands, he pulls my legs apart, and at the same time, I grab his head. It happens within a second; as he moves to gain control, I shift my thumbs over his eyes and press in. Blood pours, and he screams. I don't let go; I continue pressing in until he pulls back.

Fingers bloody, I roll away. He's groping the air, trying to find me, and when his hand touches Lanky #2's leg, he latches on. I push myself off the ground. The world spins again, but I have the time to steady myself. As realization dawns on Stubbles that the one he grabbed isn't me, I move in front of him. He's panicking. I can hear his heart pounding. He's not calm. He's yelling, screaming, cursing. And I end it all for him. I kick him down, and while his hands fly out in hopes of grabbing my leg, I smash his face in with the heel of my foot. He convulses, and I back off.

 _I want to kill him_ , but that's an easy way out for him. If he lives — if any of these three live — then they're going to bear humiliation for the rest of their years here, and that's something I look forward to.

As Stubbles clutches his face, I glance over at the other two. Lanky #1 is still. Lanky #2 is beginning to stir. And when I look up, I see another body.

Eren's.

"Enjoying the show?" I ask, my voice raspy.

Eren stares, but he doesn't seem surprised or afraid. He simply stares.

"How long have you been watching?"

"I .." He clears his throat and looks away. "I just .. came in. Just now. I followed .." His jaw works to form more words, but nothing comes out, so he clamps his mouth shut. 

 _Cute_.

I take a step forward, then another. My head feels light, my limbs weak. I stumble a little, and I expect to fall, but Eren's there, and he catches me. He holds me upward, but I'm tired. I want to sleep. My head tilts forward into his shoulder. The rush of excitement is gone. I'm tired. I  _need_  to sleep.

"Are you okay?"

It's cold. I'm shivering.

"Levi?"

I bury my nose into the crook of his neck and exhale slowly. I feel like puking. Maybe it's something I ate earlier. "Suck my dick," I murmur.

He shifts slightly then says, "I .. can't understand what you're saying."

I want to roll my eyes, but my eyelids are getting heavy. "You said .. you wanna suck my dick." The words feel foreign on my tongue, and idea itself is foreign in my thoughts. I can't think straight. "My dick is out now, so .." I take in another breath, but that doesn't help clear my head.

"I .. um .." He shifts again. "I was joking."

A joke.

Right.

That is a joke.

This is a joke.

And the people — the prisoners, my inmates — gathering behind him to see what's going on — they must be a joke too. But I don't find out, because one minute I see Erwin pushing through the crowd, and the next, I see nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh idk what i was writing (this entire chapter didn't follow my plans at all), but i definitely stepped out of my comfort zone to write this and wow i hope it's okay?? i kinda feel like this is the fic where i'm going write things i've never written before, so it's going to be rocky, ladies and gentlemen
> 
> also i know there were a lot of mature / "dark" events that took place in this chapter, and honestly, it's probably going to get worse (because this is a prison fic, after all). that's just a warning, because i don't want to trigger any of my readers. ; v; -- and i promise more eren/levi scenes in the next chapter btw!


	4. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #4: Don't touch what's not yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: slight description of gore? idk just not for the light-hearted

Let me tell you a thing or two about solitary confinement. No one likes being in it, because it makes you go insane. Being there forces you to realize how loud your thoughts are and how quiet the world is in comparison. You can scream, but no one will hear you. You can cry, but no one will help you. You're alone —  _trapped_  — for days, and during that time, you _think_. You think about what you did, what you could have done, what you can do, and what you will do. You think and you think until your thoughts become the bane of your existence — until they become the very detail that defines you. And when you walk out, you walk out a changed man.

Seventeen people in the last four years have committed suicide within a day of being let out of solitary confinement. Some left messages: " _Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned_." / " _I'll see you all in hell_." / " _Help me_." Others left marks: cigarettes arranged to form a cross, cut off middle fingers, tissues stained with tears and snot. No one could hear their screams, because their screams were nothing more than a figment of their imagination. They thought they were already dead, but they couldn't accept that, because they didn't remember dying. So they took their own lives to set things right.

I won't become the 18th person, because I know who I am. I know which thoughts are mine and which thoughts aren't. I know the difference between reality and perception. I know when I'm screaming and when I'm crying. I know I'm still breathing, thinking, _living_. While others lose their sense of self in isolation, I find myself. This is my home, my true home. I can finally think. Loud and clear. No interruptions. No influences.

It's my third day here, and I'm spending the majority of my time on the toilet. Earlier on, I had this terrible urge to shit, but now, I'm constipated. The shit is there — I know it is — but the damn thing won't come out. You'd think, with gravity and all, it'd fall straight down into the toilet bowl, but hell no, it stays huddled up in your ass. And to make matters worse, there's a guard peeking in every other minute to make sure I don't commit suicide (what can I do, drown myself in toilet water? that's filthy). At times, I ignore him; other times, I wave, but when he looks in for the millionth time this hour, I flip him off. He's a grouchy man, always grumbling about this and that, but he's respectful. Last time I was here, the guard barged in and dragged my ass off the toilet when my shit was half-way out, simply because he believed I was up to something. Unfortunately, most guards are like him. There's really no fucking privacy here.

At least two hours later, I wipe my ass and pull my pants up. There's no shit in the toilet, but I flush it anyway to alert the guard that I'm done wasting his time. He comes to handcuff me, and after that's done, he leads me back to my isolated cell (what a gentleman).

"You sure took your sweet time, eh?" he grumbles while unlocking the cell door. "I've never had someone stay constipated for three hours."

The corners of my mouth twitch, and I almost smile —  _almost_. "I think the problem is that my asshole's not stretched enough." I quirk an eyebrow at him, but all he does is scoff and shove me back into the cell. "I'm married," he tells me, and I _laugh_. Married? Ha. Marriage is stupid. All you get from it is a certificate that says " _Congratulations_!  _You're fucked_." Because, let's face it: the majority of us are driven by desire. In our selfish mind, we only think of ourselves, so naturally, we'd go after things that give us pleasure. If you're not married, that's called  _having sex_. If you are, that's called  _cheating_. It's like all of a sudden, after receiving this special certificate, fucking another person becomes a derogatory act. And if you're caught cheating, then congratuations, your life just became a soap opera.

But you know what? I enjoy fucking married people. The thought of exposing their true human nature thrills me, and in all honesty, that's probably what gets me off half the time. I mean, if I really want to, I could jerk off to the image of Mr. Grump's wife walking in and seeing me bent over the table with him pounding into my ass. She'd be in hysterics — calling him a cheater, screaming at his unfaithfulness and his broken promise of "til death do us part." And he wouldn't be able to stop, because he'd be close, so close, and —  _damn_ , I'd give anything to see those tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Well, the offer still stands," I say as he closes the door in my face. "You know where to find me." He ignores me, and I don't bother taunting him past that.

Around dinner time, Erwin pays a visit. He slides my serving over to me, then leans against the door frame and waits. I pick at the mashed potatoes then poke at the meatloaf. They're both not rock hard for once. God Bless.

"So," I say as I stick a spoonful of potatoes into my mouth, "what brings you here? Did you miss my company?"

Erwin doesn't crack a smile. "They survived," he says.

I draw the spoon out of my mouth.  _Survived_? As in, they _lived_ through all that trauma? Well, then. "What a shame."

Ever so slightly, his expression begins distorting for the worse. The corners of his lips dip downward, and his thick eyebrows reflect the motion. "Consider yourself fortunate. Another death, and we would've had to relocate you to another prison." Though his lips barely moved, his message is loud and clear. "You're not an animal, Levi. You're a human being. Behave yourself." And with that, he steps away from the cell and gestures the guard to lock the door back up.

I stare.

Consider myself fortunate? He's out of his mind.

I should've killed them — all three of them. I had the chance to. They were at my mercy. I could've just reached out — strangled them — suffocated, choked them. I could've tortured them — could've broken their fingers one by one and savored the sweet sound of them begging me to stop. I could've also broken their arms, their legs, their neck, their everything — I could've rendered them completely useless. A  _vegetable_. Then, they would've had no other option but to accept their fate and die. But I didn't do any of that. That's the only regret I have at this point. — When I get out of solitary confinement, I'm going to find them. I'm going to slit their throats, gouge their eyes out. I'll publicly humiliate them, and then —  _then_  people will realize that I'm not someone to fuck with.

Erwin's wrong. I'm an animal, but I'm also human. Those terms are used interchangeably, because they both react in the same manner. The only thing that sets me apart from an actual animal is that I don't kill for food; I kill to kill.

I'm not hungry anymore. The mashed potatoes and meatloaf don't look appetizing (they never did in the first place). The only thing that can fill my stomach at this moment is the blood of those who ridiculed me. It's lust. It's  _desire_. I want it. I  _need_  it. And no one will be able to get in my way.

I come out of solitary confinement on the sixth day.

And the first person I see is fucking Sunshine.

Over the last week, I haven't thought of him once, but now, seeing him here, everything comes back to me. At one point, I was collecting cigarettes to build a barricade against him. At one point, I blew smoke into his face. At one point, I made him lick the floor. That was well over a month ago. I tolerated his shit for over a month, and if that doesn't give me a trophy, then I don't know what will.

"Are you okay?" His voice is soft, concerned almost. You don't hear that tone often.

"Yeah." I pat my pockets for a pack of cigarettes but find nothing. They're in my cell — or at least, they should be unless Auruo found my stash and smoked them all (he wouldn't dare). "Hey, you got a cigarette?" Eren makes a face at my question, and I remember another thing: he hates that stuff. Right. "Never mind. I forgot."

"It's fine." He hesitates for a moment, then asks, "Did you like the meatloaf?"

Meatloaf? Is that what he calls a penis? That's fucking stupid. " _What_?"

"The meatloaf I made for your dinner."

So _that_ 's what he's blabbing about.

Well. It's still fucking stupid.

"I didn't eat it." Actually, I don't even remember having meatloaf. Solitary confinement is like a timeless hell. You don't remember anything that happened there unless it's significant. In my case, I only remember Erwin visiting and me taking a shit or two.

"You didn't even try it?"

"I'll try it next time."  _Jesus Christ_. "And why are you here? Did Erwin promote you to being my escort?" We're walking from the isolation hall — alone. There are guards about, but they're not breathing down my neck for once.

"I just wanted to make sure you're fine." Is he being serious, or is the damn brat mocking me again? — Mocking. Definitely mocking, because I've never had someone sound remotely concerned over my well-being before, so it's strange. And unwelcoming. I don't need anyone asking how I am, because it's none of their business. If I want people to know whether I'm feeling fine or not, I'd go around with a microphone telling them, but you don't see me doing that, and you don't see other people doing that either.

"I told you I'm fine."

He looks at me, observes me with those big, round eyes (fuck your pretty eyes, Eren, fuck them), then asks, "Does it hurt?"

"What does?" I swear if he replies with ' _when you fell from Heaven_ ,' I'm going to headbutt a dick.

"The bruises around your neck." He gives a slight nod in my direction. "They're visible."

Oh.

Without thought, I reach up and touch my neck. Any traces of my struggle should have faded by now, but — "Shit." We don't have mirrors here. They've long been removed, since prisoners had the tendency to break them and use the shards as weapons. "Do they look bad?"

Eren leans over for a closer inspection, and instinctively, I reach up and grab his shoulder. He stills, diverts his eyes for a moment, then steps back into his own space. The feeling of relief washes over me as I pull my hand away. I'm not sure what I'm relieved from, but the sensation is calming. He clears his throat then says, "It .. doesn't look too bad. Just a bit yellow."

I don't respond, and he doesn't push me to say anything else. When I get to my cell, he follows me in. I'm wary. The top bunk is made, and Auruo's usual pigsty in the corner is gone. Eren's lingering behind me. He's not moving, but the hairs at the back of my neck are standing up, alert. If he's going to try something, then he's in the perfect position to. He can jump me, tackle me to the ground, choke me — but all he does is stand there, fidgeting with the bottom of his shirt and looking around as if he's trying to find something to say. As usual, I ignore him. He probably wants details on what I did in isolation, but I don't tell him anything; instead, I seek out my stash of cigarettes — only to find they're gone.

All of them.

Every single pack, every single stick.

Someone's going to die tonight.

"Where's that bastard?" I turn to Eren. "Where's Auruo?"

"He got transferred to another cell." And took my cigarettes too, from the looks of it. "I'm your new cellmate." Fuck me two ways with a chainsaw.

"You're shitting me." This time he has got to be joking. There's no way — you can only switch if the warden sees that there's absolutely no cooperation between you and your cellmate. Even though Auruo's annoying, he's been the most tolerable cellmate I've ever had. Erwin has no reason to transfer him out and Eren in. " _Why_?"

Eren rubs his arm. "I didn't feel comfortable around my cellmate, so I asked to switch." Now, he really must be kidding me. Maybe he's high on something — no. It's more like Erwin's high. Why the fuck did he listen to some newbie's request? That's unlike him. "He said it's beneficial for you to have me in your cell." And how exactly is this beneficial? Erwin heard me when I ranted off about this dickhead (or maybe he was too engaged in sex to realize I was talking). Whatever it is, how the hell is this beneficial? Does he want me to kill another person so I can be transported elsewhere? —  _No_. He's punishing me. That's it. He's punishing me for something I had no choice in doing. Guess that's one less dick I'll be blowing (what a shame, too).

"So, I'm assuming you threw the cigarettes away, huh?" I turn away from him to run my hand underneath my pillow. After feeling a soothing bump underneath my fingers, I reach in and pull out my cut throat razor. "You got some guts, kid." I draw the blade end out and run my thumb along its edge. It's somewhat dull, but if I press hard enough, it can probably cut through skin. Or at least, that's what I'm hoping. Looking up, I step closer to Eren, and he steps back. His eyes flicker with uncertainty as he peers down at the razor in my hand. I decide to press a bit further and scare him a little. He backs up against the wall, cowering, flinching as I draw near, and when I hold the razor to his throat, he squeezes his eyes shut.

" _Don't touch what's not yours_." That's Prison Rule #4. Even though we're a group of screw ups, there's a level of respect here that you can't find anywhere else. No one touches anyone else's belongings. It's common courtesy. The only exception is thievery, and even then, you'd have to have a good reason. "The next time you do, this lovely blade is going up your ass. Understood?"

He bites his lip and nods. "Yes."

"Yes  _what_?"

" _Sir_. Yes,  _sir_."

I pat his cheek with the razor. "Good." And with that, I back off.

He jerks off in the bunk above me later on that night. At first, I ignore it — Auruo whacks off every other night, so I'm used to the sounds and all — but when Eren starts fucking  _whimpering_ , I can't help but turn over and listen. I can hear the slick noises of his hand flying up and down his dick. I can hear his breath becoming short and stuttered. I can hear his hips thrashing softly against the mattress as he draws closer and closer to coming and — he  _whines_. My hand is miraculously in my pants then. I'm not sure how it got there, but it's there, and it's roaming, touching, squeezing. I'm no where near hard, yet my stomach clenches. I bite my lip, debate over whether or not I want to do this, then fuck it over and grab my shaft.

With a couple of strokes, my desire to orgasm escalates. My rubs become fiercer, my fondles harsher. I thumb my slit, press my nail into it, teasing it, taunting it. My other hand slips downward and buries itself in my pubic hair. It tugs then, tugs hard, then slides in further and cups my balls. I tilt my head back, exposing my neck, and I let out a breath. Above me, Eren whimpers again, and that's when I start imagining. I can see him pumping himself as cum spurts from his dick. I can see him rubbing that cum along his stomach, up towards his chest, and then — I can see him bringing his dirty hand up to his mouth. And his tongue would flick out, and he'd lap up his cum just like he lapped up the dirt off the floor that one time.

 _Damn_.

I can see him reaching down, spreading his legs, and teasing that puckered hole of his. I can see him pushing a finger in, squirming around it, then fucking himself on that until he's a moaning, sobbing mess.

 _Shit_.

I want to shove my dick into his mouth and make him suck on it like a little whore. I want to see him lap at my cock like it's a fucking popsicle. I want to grab the back of his head and push him down, make him take my entire length, make him choke on it, make him  _cry_.

 _Fuck_.

And at one point, he'd look up at me with his throat full of my cock. His big, bright, green eyes would be brimmed with tears, but I wouldn't stop. I wouldn't be able to stop. I'd fuck that mouth until tears are streaming down the side of his face, and he'd take it. He'd take it all like a bitch,  _my_  bitch. And when I come, I'd make him drink every last drop, and when I pull back, he'd lick his lips and ask for more, and  _shit_ , I'd give it to him.

I'm close. I'm tingling all over.

I want to fuck him. I want spread him open, eat him out. I want to thrust into that tight heat, that virgin hole, and I — I want to humiliate him. I want to hear him moan, beg, scream. I want to grab his hair, yank his head back, graze my fingers along his stubble, rip his face off, break his neck, lick up the blood that spills from his eyes. I want to torture him slowly, slowly —

My body convulses, and I come. My sights blur, and relief, sweet relief, washes through me, cooling me down. I breathe, then I shiver. It's cold, and I'm dirty. My hands are covered with cum, my pants stained, wet. I breathe, and above me, Eren shifts. He doesn't make a sound — hasn't made a sound in five minutes, actually, but I don't care. I breathe. My eyes open, and my head throbs with the image of my recent fantasy.

I'm shaking. It's cold.

I want to get out of the bed and wipe my hands, but when I look over to do so, I see the silhouette of a person standing outside my cell. My heart stops, but after realizing it's one of the guards, I breathe. I still don't get out of bed, though. I stay there lying in my pool of cum and sweat. It's disgusting, but that's how I fall asleep.

A week passes before I pick up on the whispers that  _they_ 're back. All three of them. I see Lanky #1. He's fine. I see Lanky #2. He's all right. I see Stubbles, but he doesn't see me. He has a guard following him around, guiding him every step of the way, and similarly, I have Eren tailing behind me. (Sometimes I forget he's there, so every so often, I would get the sensation that's someone's following me. And on instinct, I'd take my cut throat razor out and press it against his throat in two seconds flat. The third time this happened, Eren grabbed my wrist and took the razor. I got it back after I almost punched him.)

During the next couple of days, I finalize my plans. I'll bash Lanky #1's head into the wall, and I'll tie Lanky #2 up and carve my name into his flesh. As for Stubbles, I'll take his tongue, his heart, and his balls. I'll keep his tongue as a trophy; I'll eat his heart; and then I'll hang up his balls as a monument for all to see.

— Except, I don't go through with this plan, because on the seventh day, the alarm blares, and the prison goes on lockdown. We only go on lockdown for one reason: someone's been killed. There's always a buzz of excitement whenever someone gets murdered, but Eren, however, isn't so excited. He's shaking when he comes back to the cell. He doesn't know what's going on — doesn't know what all the shouting and scrambling is about. He had seen the prison-house as innocent, but now, he's going to see it as it is. It's corrupt. It's horrifying. But I'm used to it. Murder is a hobby here; only a few of us see it as a job.

It's almost dinnertime, but from the looks of it, we're not having dinner. Some people complain; others, like Eren, have lost their appetite. He's been curled up on his bunk bed for some time now. His back is to me, but I can still see his body visibly shaking. Poor bastard. I want to comfort him (it's the least I can do), but I don't. I let him calm down by himself, and eventually, his trembling smooths out.

Two hours later, dinner is served in our cell, but before I can take a bite, a guard — the freckled one (Marco?) — comes over. "The warden wants to talk to you," he tells me, and I have no other choice but to go. I'm not sure why he wants to talk to me at this time — perhaps someone found out about our little trade and snitched. That's hard to believe, though, since we've gone three years without getting caught, but anything's possible.

When I step into the office and the door closes behind me, Erwin stands up. "Did you do it?" That's all he asks me. His facial expression is nonexistent, but the tone in his voice hints at clear disappointment.

"Did what?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Levi."

"I don't."

He presses his lips together, then sits back down and gestures me to come over. I do so accordingly. "Prisoner #OX-0435, Bryon Thomas, and Prisoner #OX-0442, Dwight Beecher, were both strangled. Prisoner #OX-0399, Kareen Ollio, had his throat slit open and his dick cut off. All three are dead. Are you responsible?"

I don't know if I should be offended or proud that Erwin's first to blame me. Sure, I've done a number of acts before that landed me in this same spot, but my last "accidental" kill was over a year ago. I mean, it's perfectly possible that I could've blacked out and went on a killing rampage, but that doesn't make any sense. If I were to kill those three, then I would've done so consciously.

"I didn't do it."

Erwin observes me for awhile — looks at my hands, then my feet. When he glances back up, his eyes are sharp like a predator's. "I trust your word, but if there are any discrepancies, I won't be there to defend your name. Am I clear?"

"Yes."

"Yes  _what_?"

The corner of my mouth twitches. "Yes,  _sir_."

"Good. You're dismissed."

I leave immediately.

Every step back to my cell highlights a regret. I regret not killing them when I had the chance. I regret not killing them when I had the  _second_  chance. I regret letting someone do the job for me. — I need to find this person. I need to find whoever did it and learn their name. I'm not angry. Just frustrated. The three were my victims, but in the end, someone stole them from me.

Eren's still curled up in bed when I return. He hasn't moved; he hasn't even come down to eat. The two untouched plates of dinner sit idly to the side of the cell, and for a moment, I think about taking a bite or two, but after glancing at the contents, I change my mind. I'm not hungry. I haven't been hungry for the past week.

They don't let us out the next morning, and while other prisoners are groaning about not being able to stretch their legs, I'm lazing about, cursing the brat for throwing away my cigarettes. Around lunch time, that same brat comes down from the top bunk and —

Sits his ass down on my bed.

 _Okay, bitchtits_.

Sitting at my table is one thing. Sitting on my bed is another.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I .. don't know." He looks down at his hands. "I just .. wanna talk, I guess. We haven't really talked." He's got to be shitting me. "What — what did the warden want to talk to you about?" Oh, so that's it. The little fucker wants the gossip.

"He accused me of killing them." It's funny how easily that came out.

"Did you do it?"

I scoff and point to myself. " _Not guilty_." Eren shifts but doesn't speak. "What?" I ask, lowering my hand. "Are you relieved?" He knows I am —  _was_  — a murderer, yet he requested to be transferred here. He's fucking insane.

"Yeah." His fists are firm, his knuckles white. "I mean, you've changed from your past self, so I wouldn't .. I'm not saying that you did it, because I don't think you did —"

I press a finger against his lips. "Save it." He falls quiet then, and I take the silent invitation to trace his mouth. His lips are thin, pink, and dry. They're soft to the touch and perhaps softer to meet, but there's no temptation. He's still a kid. He's still a boy. The world is cruel — has always been cruel — but I didn't imagine it being  _this_  cruel. He probably doesn't even deserve a life sentence, because he's not like us, like  _me_. Sure, he's insane, but he's insane in his own way. He shouldn't be in here with us. We're different people. We're animalistic human beings, and he's just human.

"Do you have a family, Eren?" Might as well make small talk.

"Adopted sister."

"Parents?"

He doesn't respond, and he doesn't need to. Silence is enough to tell me that his parents are long gone. Whether they're dead or lost, they're gone.

Just like mine.

"What's your sister's name?"

"Mikasa."

"You like her?"

Eren shrugs. "She's .. all right. Bosses me around sometimes, but that's what all big sisters do." He pauses for a moment, then says, "I miss her, though."  _There it is_. Real human emotion. Most prisoners don't show raw emotion any more, because that's considered a weakness. They think that, just because they're men, they're supposed to be tough, but most don't realize that pretending to be tough is a fatal flaw. There are some of us who are tough in order to exist. Then there are some of us who are tough in order to coexist.

"I don't miss anyone." I lean back against the wall and fold my arms across my chest.

"Why not?"

It's my turn to shrug. "Just didn't find the heart to care."

He's quiet again. I don't know what he's thinking, but I'm curious. He's not like us, so naturally, I want to know what goes through that head of his. Is it filled with memories of his family? Does it cater more human emotions that I've never seen or experienced?

He looks away, and after a moment, tells me, "I want to see the ocean." It's an odd wish, but for some reason, it doesn't catch me off guard. I've heard of Auruo's many wishes before ("I want to find a nice girl." / "I want to get married." / "I want to have a family."), but Eren's is different. And I like different.

"Well, all you have to do is look in the mirror, Sunshine." I raise an eyebrow. "You have the ocean in your eyes."

Eren laughs. "I've been told, but .. it's not the same. I want to see the infinite part of the world."

I hum. "Nothing's infinite."

"Nothing's definite either."

I don't answer, and he doesn't say anything else. It's only when the guard comes with lunch does something  _definite_  actually happen. As Eren stands, a small object falls out of the waistline of his pants. He doesn't see it, but I do. And I recognize it immediately.

It's my cut throat razor.

So that's where it was. The asswipe had it all along. I could've sworn I told him not to touch my belongings a week or so ago, but from the looks of it, he didn't listen. Then again, why is that shocking? He's never listened in the first place.

Reaching over, I pick it up. It takes me a second to realize it looks different. It takes me two more seconds to realize what makes it look different: there's blood on the blade.

Then, everything clicks.

Blade.

Blood.

 _Weapon_.

"Hey," I call out. He turns upon hearing my voice, and the moment his eyes land on the razor in my hand, the color drains from his face. Though I'm tempted —  _so_  tempted — to ask for details, I don't. Instead, I say, "If you want to see the ocean, don't leave evidence." And I do him a favor: I hide the weapon.


	5. Sloth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #5: Don't put your faith in others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhh sorry for the late update!! and also i updated this fic's summary bc wow "prison shouldn't be this memorable" describes absolutely nothing

Motive. Mentality. Those are the only elements that are important to your identity. Your motive determines your mentality, and your mentality defines your motive. They coexist to create organization. If you're considered sane, people will associate purpose with everything you do. If you're considered insane, people will distort your reasonings so they can keep calling you crazy. People don't like it when concepts conflict with their perception, so they oftentimes alter the idea to fit what they think. That's how the human mind orders unfamiliar things. It's all black and white; there are no gray areas, no color.

Motive. Mentality. That's what makes people interesting. That's the 0.1% that differentiates you from another, so next time you're asked to describe yourself, don't give them the usual bullshit. No one gives a damn about your name, your age, or your favorite color. Tell them what they want to hear; tell them your motive and your mentality. They can forget your name and your face, but they will never forget your purpose.

When I first spoke to my attorney, I told her everything. I told her what I did and why I did what I did. I told her my motives, plain and clear, and from that, she judged my mentality. "We can plead insanity," she told me. Plead insanity. Label me  _insane_. That was what she wanted. "I'm sane," I told her. I'm sane, because I did what I did to survive. That's human instinct. She gave me this look, then she said, "Fine." The judge and jury granted me two hundred and fifty years for what I did, and that was it.

But people still call me insane. After the lockdown, I've been hearing whispers. "He did it," they would say. "He killed them." I don't deny the claims; I let them believe, and the more they believe, the higher I rise. No one talks to me. No one even looks my way. No one except for Eren.

He's the insane one. Everything he does falls under insanity: sitting at my table, meddling with my business, pissing me off. If anything, killing those three men is the sanest thing he has done, but depending on your perception, that may have been the insanest. I see it as the latter; the brat had the nerve to steal my victims. No one has ever done that before, because victims are  _property_ , and you don't touch other people's property. But of course, Eren's the exception to that rule. He probably did it to piss me off, since everything he has done in the past pissed me off (he should write a book on that: " _How to Piss Levi Off in Two Seconds or Less_ " — it would be a best seller next to his prequel: " _I'm a Fucking Idiot_ ").

I'm not pissed off, though. Rather, I'm amused — intrigued. There's no proof that he did it. The bloodied razor could've been the result of his shitty shaving skills. But I know he killed them. It's that sensation — that  _feeling_  of knowing that there's another person just like you around. I haven't felt this sensation in a while, and now that I have, I'm caught.

Yet nothing changes. We go about our business: he sits at my table, I call him every name under the sun. We don't talk about incident; we don't even hint at it. A week passes, then two. The prison coordinators have given up on finding the three men's murderer. That's a common occurrence, since they don't give a damn about us (if we die, we die; we're that insignificant). Everything goes back to the usual, and as usual, at the end of every second month, there's Visitor Day — or, as I call it, "Every Annoying Shit is Gone For Four Hours Day." And as fate would have it, Eren's one of those annoying shits.

"So who's visiting you today?" I lean back on my bed as I watch him fumble with the tie the prison gave him (gotta look presentable, they said).

"Mikasa and Armin," Eren replies as he wraps one of the tie's tail around the other. "Does it look okay?" His eyebrows furrow as he gives his tie a few unsatisfied tugs.

"It looks like shit. Come here." As he makes his way over, I push myself up into a sitting position. "You've never tied a tie before?" I flip his collar up and undo the messy knot he created.

"I did —" My eyes flicker up to meet his, but he doesn't return my gaze. "I just .. haven't done it in a while." And it's apparent. This knot isn't even a knot; it's more like a bunch of twists and folds. How the hell he managed to produce this is a wonder to me. "Can you teach me?" His voice is soft, his words barely above a whisper. He's embarrassed. That's cute.

With a snicker, I untangle the last of his Gordian Knot. "All right. Mm .. let's pretend the wide end is a puppy and the narrow end is a long river." I indicate the two ends to him. "This puppy — let's name him Sunshine — wants to get across the river, so Sunshine jumps in and goes under." As I speak, I move the wide end underneath the narrow end. "But then Sunshine realizes that he needs to breathe, so he comes up for air. After taking in a breath, he dives back down." I pull the wide end upward then flip it back, demonstrating a diving motion. "While he's under, he dog paddles — swims, whatever — towards the other side. When he comes up for air again, he sees that he's only half-way there." I wrap the wide end around the narrow end then pull it up through the loop. "But you see, Sunshine's a stupid mutt, and he didn't judge how far he had to swim, so now he's tired and there's nothing to grab onto. So you know what happens? He drowns." To finalize the short story, I bring the wide end all the way through the front of the knot. "And that's how you tie the Brat Knot." It's actually called the Pratt Knot, but 'brat' seems more fitting.

"Does Sunshine die?" Eren asks, sounding mildly concerned.

"Yeah, he suffocates." To prove my point, I tighten the tie, and in response, Eren sputters. "My bad. Is that too tight?"

"A bit," he wheezes. I loosen it a little, and he lets out a breath. "Okay. It's good. I — thanks."

A low hum rumbles from my throat as I wrap the tie around my finger. It's a nice tie. Long. Dark. Strong. Out of pure amusement, I yank Eren forward. His eyes squeeze shut, as if expecting the worst, but the worst doesn't come; our lips don't touch, but our faces come a breath apart. The corners of my mouth quirk upward. "Say, you never told me you had a wife."

His eyes open, and he pulls back. I let him go. "I don't — I never had a wife."

"Oh?" I lean back on my elbows. "Then who's this Armin you mentioned?"

All the blood rushes to his cheeks. "That's my best friend."  _Best friend_ , my ass. No one turns into a damn tomato when their best friend is mentioned. "The three of us — Mikasa, me, and Armin — have been friends for a while and —"

"Save it. I don't want to hear your life story." I nudge him away with my foot. "Hurry up and go before they leave." I wouldn't be surprised if they had already left. I mean, Eren here spent ten fucking hours trying to tie his tie. Much emphasis on  _trying_.

"Okay, okay." He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a breath. "I'll see you later." When he leaves, I feel like throwing a party. The brat is gone. Finally. Hallelujah. Praise the Lord. At last, I can do whatever I want without him tailing me around.

But of course, my lazyass self doesn't do anything. For an hour, I lie in bed and stare at the bunk above me (the very bunk Auruo and Eren contaminated with their semen —  _gross_ ). For the next hour, I try to sleep, but sleep doesn't come easy in the middle of the day, so in the end, I go out to explore. Jobs are canceled for the day, since half the prison's gone, but there's still a number of inmates milling about. Some of them are playing Monopoly (if you think playing Monopoly with your family is intense, try playing it with criminals; I guarantee you'll lose a finger or two). Others are hanging outside and smoking cigarettes. Since I don't feel like losing a finger today, I join the smokers.

Except I don't have any cigarettes, because some dickface threw them all away.

It's been a couple of weeks since my last cigarette, so needless to say, I'm deprived. It's strange. I've never craved nicotine before, but being out here with all the smoke is getting to me. Now it's only a matter of getting my hands on one of those sticks.

"Hey." I approach a familiar face. "You got a spare?"

He eyes me for a bit, then draws out his cigarette. "A spare what?"

"Cigarette."

His fingers shift towards his pockets to remove one from the small pack. As he waves it in my face, he asks, "What will you give for it?"

My gaze flickers from his hand to his crotch. "Something your boytoy probably hasn't given you." I glance up and pluck the cigarette from his hold. "Got a lighter?"

"Marco's not my boytoy," he says while leaning over to light my cigarette for me (how nice). "It's complicated."  _Complicated_? What the hell is this, middle school? I haven't heard of a relationship being "complicated" in at least thirty years.

"You wanna talk about it?" I tilt my head in the direction of an empty corner. He hesitates for a moment, then follows me to that area. From there, we sit. "Jean, right?"

"Yeah, it's Jean."

"Tell me about your boytoy."

Jean gives me a pointed look. "His name is Marco," he tells me again, "and it's not like that. I'm not a faggot." This place is full of fucking liars, I swear. "I have a wife and a kid at home." Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

"So what's the problem?" I remove the cigarette from my mouth and part my lips to breathe out the smoke. When invisible ashes fall on my tongue, I lean my head against the wall and sigh.

"My wife wants to leave me." That sucks. "Said the kid isn't even mine." That sucks major ass. "Didn't even listen when I told her I could get out of here in a couple of months. I think she's screwing Joey — our babysitter. I fucking hate that guy. He hits on her every time he comes over, and I told her we better get another babysitter, but she insisted he's the best. Something about him being young and understanding children. It's all bullshit."

"Right," I say. I'm not really listening, because I don't give a damn about his issues.

"Yeah, I'm sure she's screwing around with him."  _Blah, blah, blah_. Wife this, babysitter that. While he continues rambling about his relationship problems, I reach over and slide my hand up along his thigh. He doesn't stop talking, so I continue. I cup his groin and give it a gentle squeeze. When he arches slightly into the touch, I take that as permission to unbutton his pants and pull his dick out. It's then that he stops me. "What the hell are you doing?"

 _Touching your dick, obviously_.

I roll my eyes. "Giving you a handjob for the cigarette." I blow smoke in his direction. "Don't mind me. Keep telling me about this wife of yours or whatever."

So he talks on while I mindlessly stroke him. At one point, he switches to talking about Marco — I don't know why, I wasn't really paying attention — but he has a lot to say about that guy. I let him jabber on as I smear the pre-cum around the head of his cock. He's close. His thighs are shaking as he struggles to keep them spread. He breathes out Marco's name a couple of more times, mentions something about Jenny (his wife? I don't fucking know anymore), then spends a few moments bashing the babysitter.

"Fuck him," he groans. "Fuck him and his fucking green eyes."

"Yeah," I agree, giving his dick a few more tugs. "Fuck him and his fucking green eyes." And behold, my mind goes to Eren and his goddamn eyes.

"Fuck Jenny too. She —" His breath hitches as I stroke him faster. "She — She can screw around all she w-wants. Fuck. I have Marco." He squeezes his eyes shut and thrusts upward. Incoherent words fall from his lips. His cigarette lies to the side, forgotten. I bite down on my own to keep it from dropping. He shakes, he trembles, and with Marco's name leaving his mouth for a final time, he comes.

 _Not a faggot_ , he tells me.

What bullshit.

Taking my hand back, I draw my cigarette out. And in the moment, I realize I've touched a lot of dirty dicks lately. Erwin's. Stubbles's. Jean's. How disgusting. Before coming here, I've never touched anyone else's dick but my own, but what can I say? You gotta do what you gotta do. (But I still need to wash my hands.)

As I stand to put out my cigarette, Jean sucks in a deep breath and looks up at me. "Hey," he starts. "Levi, right?"

"Yeah, it's Levi." I rub the cigarette out with the heel of my foot.

"Did you .." I halt in motion to give him my full attention. "Did you kill those three?"

Even though no one other than Erwin and Eren has asked me this, the question doesn't come as a surprise. Rumors fly, but the truth rarely follows. Some accept the rumor and move on; others are curious. Curiosity is a good thing when you're in kindergarten, but when you're in prison, curiosity really does kill.

"Do you think I did?" I ask him.

Jean gives a slight shrug. "I'unno. That's why I asked. Everyone thinks you did."

"I'm asking if you think I did."

He shifts upright. "No .. ?"

"Then I didn't."

When he doesn't ask anything else, I leave him and walk back inside. I pass the people playing Monopoly (no missing fingers yet) on the way to the washrooms. No one's there, which makes me hesitate upon entering, but I push the insecurity aside to wash my hands. After drying them, I'm back out in the open. I consider going over and watching my inmates play Deathnopoly, but in the end, I decide against it. I don't want to be caught in the middle of a fist fight whenever it happens. So I go back to my cell and I try to sleep again, but my body remains restless.

Eren comes back an hour later. He looks different. Or at least, his hair does. His bangs have been swept to the side, and well, he looks .. stupider.

"Nice hair," I say.

He brushes his bangs aside and tucks them behind his ear. "Mikasa said it's getting long."

"Yeah, it kinda is." I sit up to get a better view. "You look like a shaggy dog — or some rockstar who hasn't taken a shower in two weeks."

"Thanks?"

Christ. "That's not a compliment." I motion him over, and he comes obediently. "Are you good with cutting hair?"

"Uh .. maybe? I don't know."

"It's a 'yes' or 'no' question." I don't like people who beat around the bush and give me indirect answers. It's a simple question, and the answer should be as simple.  _Yes or no_. Not "uh," or "maybe," or "I don't know." It's just  _yes or no_. Black and white. No gray areas, no color.

"Yes .. ? If you want me to cut, I can cut."

Good enough. "All right, I'll make you a deal. My hair's getting long, too, so how about you cut mine, and I'll cut yours? I would have the barber do it, but he only takes cigarettes for payment. And well, you see, some dumbass threw my stash away, so I'm broke." I raise an eyebrow at him.

Eren's jaw clenches for a moment before he nods. "Okay. I haven't really cut hair before — but I can do trims."

 _Trims_ , he said.  _Trims_. Obviously, Sunshine's definition of 'trims' is different from mine, because there's a fuck ton of my hair on the ground. Why is that. Where is the hair coming from. Last I check, my hair wasn't even touching my shoulder. "Having fun trimming all my hair off, Eren?" Upon hearing the annoyance in my voice, he tenses up behind me. I sniff. "How much did you fuck up?" I usually don't care about my appearance, but I don't want to look like some clown with a reverse mohawk.

"It doesn't look that bad." He saws another lock off then steps to the side. "Just .. a little short. Sorry."

I run my hand through my hair, and — "a little short," my ass. I'd have had better luck cutting my hair off with my teeth. It's short. Too short. The shortest. I don't have side bangs anymore. Hell, Eren might as well shave it all off, since there's barely anything up there. Might as well go bald. Might as well become a goddamn monk. I mean, shit.

Prison Rule #5:  _Don't put your faith in others_ , because if you do, you'll get the shittiest haircut ever.

"It'll grow back." His fingers dance along the back of my skull and stop at the base of my neck. "The bruises are gone," he murmurs. I ignore his comment, bat his hand away, and snatch the razor from him.

"All right, Shaggy. Your turn." I stand, and Eren sits. "How short do you want it?"

"Just cut off an inch," he tells me. I get to work.

I part his hair into two equal sections, then, with ever steady fingers, I take part of his side bangs into my hand. I press the sharper end of the razor's blade to his hair and — my hand slips.

"Ow!" Eren grabs my wrist. "What the hell?"

I snicker. "My bad."

He bristles for a moment then runs his hand along the area of hair I  _accidentally_  cut off. "It's — a bit short."

"Yeah, I know. My hand slipped."  _Whoopsie_.

He opens his mouth to say something, but after a moment, seals it shut. Seeing that he's not making any remarks, I continue with my cutting. My hand slips again for the other side's bangs. And it slips again in the back. Half-way through, Eren pulls away and complains about how much my tugging hurts. I tell him there's not much I can do to reduce the pain, so he just has to suck it up. Of course, he doesn't falter easily. Every so often, he would lean forward to get away from my yanks, but I would pull him back every time and make him endure it. I'm not enjoying his pain. I'm only fulfilling my part of the deal.

As I work to even out the rough cuts, he finally settles down. At one point, I poke his cheek with the razor just for the hell of it, and he fucking  _squeaks_. At another point, I grab what's left of his hair and yank him into my chest. He flails his arms out to steady himself, then he turns and gives me this pouty-lipped glare. He's a cute pup. At yet another point, we talk like normal people. I ask him how his visit went, and he tells me all the bullshit about Mikasa and Armin. He also shows me a necklace with some key on it, which I wave off as some souvenir from the outside world. And then he asks me what I did when he was gone. I answer him without much thought: "I jerked Jean off."

"Wait — why?" He sounds offended for some reason.

"For a cigarette." I ruffle his short hair to get the stray strands out. "Done."

Eren draws his fingers through his hair, pauses, then lets his hand fall to his side. "You cut it too short," he mutters. I step back to examine my work, and true to his words, his hair is short. Extremely short. Just like mine.

"It'll grow back." When I say that, he turns to face me with slightly narrowed eyes.

"You did it on purpose."

My cheeks ache to smile. "Did what?" I ask. I can play innocent, too.

He huffs and touches his hair once more. "Does it look okay? I don't look weird, do I?"

"Give me more credit, damn. It looks fine." I reach over and ruffle his hair again. I like touching his hair. It's surprisingly soft. "Look on bright side. At least it'll dry in two minutes."  _At least you'll spend less time washing it, which means you'll spend less time in the showers_. Guess that's one good thing that comes out of having shorter hair. "Relax. You don't have to impress anyone here. — Unless you like dick."

Eren's eyes travel elsewhere, and I know what's coming. It's the same scenario every time. "I .. I'm straight," he says. Here we go again with all the heterosexual business. Everyone enters prison thinking they're straight. Sure, some of them have wives and a couple of kids, but really, if you're stuck in this shithole for more than a year, you're going to desire sex, and it's not going to matter where you stick your dick in.

"Funny. That's exactly what Jean said, but then he came all over this hand." I raise my right hand and wiggle my fingers. "Besides, you said you didn't have a wife."

"Doesn't mean I don't have a girlfriend!" His face is flushed.

"Mm. Right. A girlfriend. Armin, right?"

"Armin's a guy!"

"So you  _are_  gay."

Pink shades his ears and neck, and his lips quiver with frustration. "Armin's my best friend. I don't have feelings for him — really! That's just gross. He's like a brother to me, and —"

"Hey, hey." I hold up both hands in surrender. "Calm down. I'm just teasing you." Kids are so fun to taunt these days. Especially Eren. He's one of a kind. Easy to embarrass. Quick to fluster. Perfect.

Eren puffs out his cheeks. "You're an ass sometimes."  _Wow, that's brand new information_. Tell me something I don't know.

"Being an ass is my job, Sunshine."

"You're the CEO, more like."

It takes a while for his comment to sink in, and when it does, I can't help but snort. Me as the CEO of Being an Ass Corporation? Yeah, that sounds about right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone should keep a list of the many names levi calls eren. i swear there's at least twenty different ones in these five chapters.


	6. Gluttony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #6: Don't trust anyone.

It's that time of the month again — that time of the month when everyone goes batshit insane over a free pack of cigarettes. For something as insignificant as that, it's one of the prison's bigger events. We call it "Cigarette Day," and on this particular day, everyone gets in on the festive spirit. At 7:00a.m., we eat breakfast as usual. At 8:00a.m., we scrub floors as normal. At 10:00a.m., we shit our pants, because we can't contain our excitement over a goddamn pack of cigarettes. But funny thing is, for a bunch of junkyard dogs, we're fairly civil. We don't push, shove, or trample each other over; we just get in line like eager, snotty kids waiting to get our hands on some Halloween candy.

While we wait, we stand around talking and joking with our inmates — as if all of us are best friends, as if none of us had raped children, ate women, or murdered men. And I, of course, have the pleasure of talking to Sunshine. He didn't even want cigarettes, but I made him get in line so that he could get an extra pack for me (what can I say, I'm just taking advantage of my resources). But before getting that reward, I have to put up with his consistent blabber. I don't even know what he's rambling on about half the time, but whenever I tune in, it's usually something stupid like taxes or finances (what the actual fuck, Eren). Fortunately, the line moves quick, and within a minute or two, Eren steps up to the prison guard to accept his pack of cigarettes. When it's finally my turn, I reach out to take my pack — but the guard doesn't let go. His grip is firm despite my tugs. I frown. "What?"

He doesn't bristle at my bite, doesn't flinch at my glare. "The warden wants to see you sometime today. He says it's important." My eyes narrow. Erwin hasn't called me to his office since _that incident_ , and knowing him, he's only calling now because he has a bad case of blue balls. He probably wants me to take care of it, but too bad for him, I'm not getting on my knees again. Fuck that.

Brushing it off, I jerk the pack out of the guard's grip, and without sparing a look, I gesture Eren to follow me out into the courtyard. Eren doesn't make a sound of resistance, and when we get outside, he doesn't resist giving me his cigarettes. _Whoo—fucking—hoo_. Christmas came early. As I slip the extra pack into my pockets, I feel everyone watching me. They're not eyeing my pockets, though; they're eyeing my hands, waiting for me to light the first cigarette. That's an unspoken tradition here: the current Top Dog lights the first cigarette and takes the first inhale. If someone who _doesn't_ hold that title smokes first, then they're directly proposing a challenge. This happened once during the last four years, and I was quick to shut them down.

No one challenges me this time, so I light my cigarette, and with a puff, I watch as a hundred other fingers fumble to open packs. As the celebration starts, I turn to Eren, who's digging his heel into the ground and glancing around nervously. "Hey." When he looks back at me, my tainted hand lowers to my side. "You don't have to stay out here," I tell him. I'm surprised he hasn't lost his head yet, considering how he reacted the first time I smoked around him.

"I —" He looks around again, hesistates, then says, "All right. Okay. I'll see you later." His gaze doesn't linger; his feet don't hesitate. He turns, and he leaves. I watch him go. I watch the way he drags his heels, the way the soles of his feet scrape against the concrete. I watch the way he holds himself, how his shoulders arch forward, how his arms seem to cling to his side. I watch the way he slowly opens the door, how he slips inside, how the door shuts quietly behind him, how he disappears, unnoticed. — He's a strange kid. I've never met someone like him before. He's human in a way that he's not. He's real in a way that he's fake.

Curiosity kills, so I suppose I'm suicidal. I want to slit him open, stick my hand in, and feel around for an answer that satisfies this thirst to know. I want to turn him inside out, feast my eyes upon his brain and his heart to see what he really thinks and feels. And then, after I find out, I want to consume him from the bottom up — first his cock (his lust), then his heart (his feelings), and last his brain (his sanity). I want to put him together like a puzzle. I want to break him apart and mix up his pieces. I want to rearrange him in a disorderly way.

But my wants are separate from my reality. Out of mind, I just want him to take a twenty-four hour long shit every day for the rest of the time he's here.  _Funny thing is_ , when I finish off my cigarette and go back inside, my eyes wander. They skim the area, searching for that annoying fuck of face, and when they see nothing but darkened familiarities, they stop looking. I don't know why I expected him to sit around and wait — I guess it's because he had always done that, but I shouldn't be complaining. He's off my back. I can finally breathe.

And the first thing I do —  _the first thing of all fucking things_  — is visit Erwin. I don't visit because he asked for me, mind you; I'm only visiting because I need someone to sit through my bitching. Erwin has always been the greatest at doing that, so why not.

When I get there, the bastard looks as smug as ever. There's no glint in his eyes, no smirk on his lips, but he still looks smug. He needs an award for that.  _Smuggest Bastard That Has Ever Smugged._

"Levi," he drawls, folding his hands together and leaning forward. "I see you've gotten your hair cut."

Whether it's ill-will or impulsive, I reach up and run my hand through my short locks. "It's more like I got it shaved off." I'm still holding a grudge against that little shit, and it's a grudge I'm going to drag to my grave. That's a promise.

Erwin hums (or maybe he's trying not to laugh — fuck you, you big ass Twinkie). "It looks nice." Quote, unquote,  _nice_. Sure, Erwin. Whatever you say, Erwin. "How have you been?" he asks me. "We haven't spoken in a while." Ha.  _A while_  as in almost a month, asshole.

My eyes narrow. I know he wants something. Erwin's not a nice guy. He has never asked me how I've been and meant it. There's always some sort of motive. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" I press my palms flat against his desk and pivot my hip to the side. "Why did you call me here? Don't you have prostitutes on speed dial?"

A small smile peeks. "No one's as good as you."

"You calling me a whore?"

"Never did."

"It was implied." I push myself up to sit on the edge of his desk. As I shift into a more comfortable position, his expression remains stone-still; he doesn't cringe when he hears his paperwork crumpling beneath my moving ass. "But really," I say, "do you have something for me?" I tilt my head back and look at him.

He grabs my shoulders then — and my legs swing out for balance. My hands fly up to grab his wrists. He pauses — then gently pushes my shoulders down until they touch the desk. He doesn't let go of me; I don't let go of him. "Do you feel like yourself?" he asks me, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Are you bored?"

"I'm not asking you for sex."

My fingers twinge with disgust, my nails dig into his perfect white skin. "Then get your hands off me." There's a whirlwind of nausea in my stomach and a flicker of tingles that shoot down my arms.

He moves — grips my shoulders tighter — leans over me — stops. "Does it bother you?" The room temperature drops twenty degrees, but he doesn't seem fazed. He's never fazed by anything, because he's too busy looking too goddamn smug. "Hear me out." He ignores my squirming. "I realize you don't know me well, but you can still trust me." I snort at that.  _Trust him_? This is a prison, an adult playground.

Prison Rule #6:  _Don't trust anyone_ , because no one's going to catch you when you fall back. They might say they're going to catch you. They might say "trust me," but truth is, they're fucking liars. They're not going to go out of their way to support you. They're not going to care unless it somehow benefits them. That's real talk.

"Trust _you_? You're a comedian." When I look up and meet his stare, a glint of emotion flickers across his eyes and disappears. He shifts. His fingers ghost along my arm, dancing gently upon the goosebumps, then he releases me.

"I called you here for a reason." He lounges back in his seat, and in turn, I pull myself back into a sitting position. "Be wary of who you're dealing with. I have my suspicions that someone _knows_." We've always been careful, but there's always an extra pair of eyes that turns on us when we turn our backs. No one likes that extra pair of eyes. They're what we call " _snitches_ ," and they're the number one reason why you shouldn't trust anyone. They can sell you out without hesitation, without remorse, and if Erwin's suspecting there's one, then there's  _definitely_  one.

Pursing my lips, I lean back on my palms. "You know who it is," I say, glancing over my shoulder at him.

"I said I had my suspicions."

"Do you want me to draw him out?" I've caught two snitches before, and I have no problem catching a third. The last two weren't dangerous, though; the first quieted after I threatened him, the second valued my mouth more than money. If this one is anything like the others, then he'll be easy to take care of.

But Erwin doesn't give me that luxury. "Don't," he tells me. "I'll deal with them myself. I just wanted you to be aware that there may be a rat."

My eyebrows shoot up. "You're kidding." There's a distinct difference between a  _snitch_  and a  _rat_. A snitch is someone who tells for personal gains — money, sex, drugs. A rat is someone else — someone with a name, a title, a duty. Rats don't belong here, because they're not like us. They might look and act just like us, but they're different. They're not on our side. We're the government's rebels; they're the government's pawns. We haven't had a rat since I've been here. I've heard stories of them, but until now, I've never heard that term used actively. "You're not kidding, right?"

"Levi, do  _not_  seek him out. This is an order."

I scoff. "What? Afraid I'll find him before you do?"

No light graces his expression. "You have no real power here. There's nothing you can do to legally punish him." Well. I suppose he's right to an extent. I can kill the rat, but apparently, that's illegal ( _who knew_ ). "Do you understand?"

"Yes," I pause, then add, "sir."

"Dismissed. Oh, and Levi? You're not to tell anyone what I've told you. The last thing this prison needs is another riot." I tell him sure. Sure, I won't tell anyone. Sure, I'll just let that information sit in the corner of my mind. Sure, whatever.

But when the office door swings shut behind me, I forget what I'm saying "sure" for.  _Whoops_. I make my way back to my cell, and it's there that I see Eren lying on his bunk, reading a book. There must be something wrong with my eyes.  _Reading a book_? Maybe age is finally getting to me. The little roach is reading a book — you know, those things on the library shelves that haven't been touched for two centuries? Yeah, those things.  _Books_. I haven't read a book in — a long time. I might've read one when I was in kindergarten ( _one fish, two fish, green fish, dead fish_? who fucking knows), and I might've read one in secondary school, but then I did the drugs, and the drugs did me in.

"Hey." At the sound of my greeting, Eren's blob of a body jerks. I raise an eyebrow. "What are you reading there, Sunshine?" Bet it's something about Egyptian civilization that no one but gravediggers give a damn about.

He turns to his side and holds the book out to me. "Shakespeare's  _Romeo and Juliet_."

I take the text from him, admire the beige-colored cover, then flip it open. " _From forth the fatal loins of these two foes_  ..  _a pair of star-crossed lovers take their life_  .. betrayal?"

"Suicide." Eren leans over the edge of his bed and allows his limbs to dangle freely in front of my face. "You've never read  _Romeo and Juliet_?" Well, Sunshine, not everyone's as bright as you are. "It's about these two rivaling families — the Montagues and the Capulets. Romeo, a Montague, falls in love with Juliet, a Capulet. Since their relationship is forbidden, Shakespeare calls them ' _star-crossed lovers_.'"

"So, they just kill themselves because they can't be together?" That's the stupidest shit I've heard in a while.

Eren takes the book back from me. "It's more complicated than that, but that's basically what happens." He flips through to the end, then reads, " _For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo_. They were destined to die from the start. It's tragic." He closes the book, then props his chin on it. "You smell like smoke."

I pick at my shirt and sniff it and — yeah, I kinda do smell like smoke.  _I wonder why_. "Tell me something I don't know." I duck under his dangling arm to sit on my bunk, but the moment my ass touches the bed, I remember why I'm here in the first place. "Actually," I begin, peeking up at him, "let me tell  _you_  something you don't know." Eren peers over his bed and quirks an eyebrow. I don't miss a beat. "There's a rat here." I don't know why I'm telling him this. Maybe I just can't keep my mouth shut. Maybe I just want to defy Erwin.

"What's so special about a rat?"

"We haven't had one in a while."

His brow creases. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"It means shit's about to go down." And that's going to be the highlight of the year. If there's anything we prisoners collectively hate, it's rats. It's not even the governmental aspect that gets us snarling and hissing, rather, it's the idea that someone's pretending to be one of us — that someone's actively making the choice to appear deranged.

"I .. think I'm missing something here." Eren pauses for a moment, then asks, "Are we talking about the rodent?"

Rodent?

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Sometimes I forget Sunshine's a stupid fuck.

"No, not the rodent. Rats are undercover cops."

" _Oh_." He shifts. "What do you think they're here for?"

"I don't know." Always questions, never answers. No one really knows what's going on. They may think they know just like I think I know, but reality is, we don't know shit. We're kept in the dark, oppressed, suppressed. Erwin, on the contrary, knows everything about everything. Thing is, he's the filter; he's the person who decides what information gets in and what information stays out. The downside of it all is that we don't know if the information coming in is true or false. There might not even be a rat. Maybe he's bored. Maybe he wants entertainment.

And if entertainment's his ulterior motive, then he's getting it.

The first person I tell is Eren. The second is Auruo, and that's all it takes. Word spreads. It gets around the inner circle — the gossipers, the liars — then it circulates to the outer circle. By day three, every glare is sharper than a dagger. Everyone's wary, because at this point, everyone knows that there's a wolf in sheep's clothing, and that wolf is lurking, waiting —  _waiting_  for the right moment to strike. And this wolf can be _anyone_.

On day five, the first storm hits. I'm at dinner enjoying my plate of meatloaf (which, I must admit, isn't half-bad). Eren sits across from me. There's chatter around us — a perfect norm for this hour — but then, it happens. A tray clatters against the floor, and the talk dies. I stop chewing and look over. An old, frail man stands in the spotlight with his hands stretched up in surrender. His fingers tremble, his body shakes. He utters something, but no one listens. Across the table, Eren moves to stand, but when I shoot him a look, he sits back down.

"Just watch," I mutter.

And we watch. We watch the old man cower. Watch him beg. Watch him fall, curl up. We watch the people kick him as if he's a rag doll, then we watch the scums spit on him as if he's lower than them. We watch him bleed, watch him weep. Some people turn away, perhaps in disgust, but I keep watching. Some people cheer them on, excitement on their tongues, but I don't get the same adrenaline rush. My heart doesn't pound; my blood doesn't pulse. I don't feel anything.

The old man pukes. They point, they laugh, they —

"Stop it!" The cafeteria goes quiet as all eyes turn my way. I remain still, unfazed, but Eren — that dumbfuck — is out of his seat. "Leave him alone!" His voice carries across the dining area; there's no waver, no hesitation.

"What was that?" a hefty-looking man calls out. "Are you defending this  _rat_?"

Eren's fingers flex. "He's not the rat."

The man's shoulders shake with hearty laughter. "How do you know? Didn't you hear what he said? — _Wait_." With his chuckles dying at the base of his throat, he steps over the busted body and walks this way. When he gets to Eren, he halts and pokes him in the chest. "Don't tell me  _you're_  the rat."

"I'm not the rat."

Again, the man laughs. "Did you hear that? He's not the rat! _Ha_! Well, lemme tell you something. You know what pretty faces do best?  _Lie_. Pretty faces always lie, and they're always so good at it, because everyone's so gullible. But guess what? I'm not stupid. You're the rat." He drives Eren back. "Come on, admit it, Rat. We all know your secret. There's no point in hiding."

"I'm not the rat," Eren says, this time firmer.

"Really, now?" Another shove. "We've got you cornered, so out with it." Yet another push.

I should be amused by this. I should be eating popcorn and watching this go down, but I don't. Instead, I stand. "If he said he's not the rat, then he's not the rat, so back the fuck off." Damn Sunshine for making me get involved. Damn him. Damn him straight to hell.

The guy turns to me, raises an eyebrow, then grins wide. "How do you know? Look at him. He looks like a liar."

"And you look like a dumbass."

"Wanna say that again, you bastard?" A particular spark in his eye tells me that he wants to grab me and throw me down, but before he can even think about reaching over, someone places a hand on his chest, keeping him back (keeping me safe). His neck cranes to see the person next to him. "Is there a problem, buck?" 

"Further disturbance will get you thrown in isolation for a week." The prison guard looks at me then at him. "Go to your cell."

The crazy fucker stares then cackles. "All right, all right. I'm just messing with you, Levi." He jerks away from the guard's hold and glances over at Eren. "But I'm keeping my eye on you." And with that, he leaves with the guard following close behind.

Eren doesn't waste a moment; once they're out of sight, he ushers over to the old man from before. Everyone else looks away as if nothing happened, but _I_ watch. I watch Eren help the man wipe his mouth and stand up. I watch the man pat Eren's shoulder and shake his head. I watch them hobble off toward the showers together. Idiots. Both of them. One day, Eren's going to wake up and realize that caring for others isn't a civil act. _One day_ , he's going to wake up and see the light in what he had done. By helping someone, he put himself in danger. He made himself vulnerable. As for the old man, he's already dead. I don't call Eren back and tell him this, because I've already done enough for him today. He'll just have to figure out the consequences when they come.

I go back to my cell, and the first thing I notice is that my bed's unmade. Usually, I would smooth out the covers at the very least, but I suppose the storm has taken its toll on order. Brushing away the thought, I grab _Romeo and Juliet_ and settle down on my bunk. Sometime later, Eren comes in smelling like soap. He stops when he sees me, then smiles when he processes my action. I roll my eyes and chuck the book at him. "You're late."

"I was helping an old man shower." He tosses the text my way.

I throw it back. "Helping an old geezer shower shouldn't take an hour unless you're showering together." Gross. I did  _not_  just imply that.

Eren doesn't answer immediately; he comes over and — again without permission — sits down on my bed. "I had to clean his cuts." He pauses for a second, then asks, "Why didn't you help him?" There's a voice of betrayal, a tone of broken trust — trust that shouldn't even be there. "Why didn't you stand up for him?"

Because it's not my place. Because there's no benefit. Because _I don't care_. "I saved your ass, didn't I?"

"Yeah." His lashes flicker. "I didn't need you to, but — thanks." Ungrateful bastard. I've never stood up for anyone, or at least, not to that extent. Most of the time, I don't give a shit what happens in prison, because things that happen, happen for a reason, and it's not my place to get in-between.

Waving off the topic, I take  _Romeo and Juliet_  from him. "I tried reading this. It didn't make any fucking sense. Explain it to me." — And though he looks at me with feigned interest, he does. He explains how Romeo snuck into a Capulet party and met Juliet. He explains how they first kissed and how distraught Juliet felt when she learned of Romeo's identity. He explains how cruel fate tied them together, then broke them apart. He explains their ending tragedy, and I can't help but think more of it.

"Hey, Eren?"

"Hm?"

"You're not the rat, right?"

"No." He looks over at me. "No, I'm not." And for some reason, I believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god i'm sososo sorry for this super late update. and i know i promised this chapter on sunday -- but in my defense, it's still sunday in some parts of the world.


	7. Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #7: Don't underestimate the extent of someone's capability.

Erwin is mad pissed. "I told you not to tell anyone," he says, eyes narrowing, lips firming, wrinkles smiling. "I trusted you with that information, and you went against your word. Do you realize what you have done?" He pauses for a moment, perhaps waiting for me to answer, but when I utter no response, he continues, "Three people in this past week have been sent to the infirmary. If this continues, someone's going to end up dead." I know this isn't a laughing matter, but it's hard to contain myself if Erwin —  _calm and collected_  Erwin — is throwing tantrum like a little kid. "Levi!" The moment I hear his bark, I stop basking in amusement.

"I get it. I started something I shouldn't have." Slouching in my seat, I offer him a forced, apologetic smile. "But in my defense, I didn't announce it. I just told Eren and Auruo." Neither of them are much gossipers, but Auruo talks a lot, and well, it must have  _slipped out_  while he was boasting to a crowd of people. He prides himself in knowing information that most inmates don't know; some of this information comes from his imagination, some of it comes from me. Either way, people believe him, because there's no one else to believe.

"Telling them was more than enough." Erwin sits back and brings his fingers up to massage the bridge of his nose. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, he breathes and — doesn't lose composure. In the four years I've been here, not once have I been successful in making him lose that mask — that mask of pride and superiority. Don't get me wrong, I've come close many times: when he fucks me, he bites down on his lip, closes his eyes, and pants out " _shit_ ," but that's the extent of it. Up until today, I've never seen his face flushed, so I suppose this is an accomplishment even though the red in his cheeks faded fast. "You're making it harder for me." Erwin peers over at me. "Are you proud?"

Proud.  _Pride_. Of the seven deadly sins, pride is the worst. Gluttony makes people steal. Greed makes people kidnap. Wrath makes people assault. Lust makes people rape. Sloth makes people torture. Envy makes people kill. But pride —  _pride_  makes people take action. Pride is the incentive, the catalyst. For some, it's their sole being; everything they do, they do for pride. For others, it's only natural. To have pride is to survive; without it, you're dead. " _Are you proud_?" That's what Erwin asked me. Are you proud?  _Are you alive_?

"Somewhat."

He seals his lips, and then with flexed eyebrows, he leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk. "Don't test of my patience. You won't like me when I'm angry."

"Are you saying I like you now?"

"Is this a game to you?"

"When you're stuck in this shithole for two hundred years, you need something to pass time with." I tilt my chin up. "You knew I was going to tell someone. You wanted that information spread. We're in the same predicament."

Erwin's jaw clenches. "You misunderstood me. I told you what I did to warn you."

"What's the worst they can do to punish me?" Give me more years? As if that's going to make a difference.

"Death penalty," he tells me without missing a beat. "This is not a game you can win, Levi." — But it is a game I can win. Easily, at that. The death row is a long wait — an everlasting, pending doom. Even if I were given the sentence, I would be waiting thirty, maybe even forty, years. So joke's on the government.

I don't mention this to Erwin, though; I let him believe, and instead, I say, "You didn't want to get caught."

"No one does." There's no anger backing his words, no hint of disappointment shadowing his expression. "Stay out of trouble. That's all I ask of you." Erwin's never easy to read. When he's calm, he's upset. When he's passive, he's disturbed. And when he smiles, he lies. That's what makes him dangerous. He's a two-sided coin — not two-faced, just two-sided.

He raises a hand and waves me off. "You're free to go." And without a reply, I go.

The prison is in a state of controlled sedation. The guards mill about, gun loaded, waiting for someone to act up, but no one does. Eyes shift, but lips remain sealed. It's the calm after a thunderstorm, and it's the calm before a hurricane. Question is, how long is it until the next storm? How long until the next casualty? Three people have been to the infirmary. Many more will go. I know this for certain, because the prison hasn't been in this state of calmness since .. a while ago.

Day nine passes. There's rain but no thunder. There's wind but no storm. No one speaks of the rat, but everyone looks. Who's shifty? Who's fidgety? Who doesn't fit in? His hair is too dark. He dyed it. His nails are too clean. He has outside resources. His body is too toned. He had training. His hands are too close to his waist. He's hiding a gun. His this, he that —

"He knows too much information.  _He's the rat_." A couple of us are gathered in the courtyard; some of us are smoking, others are acting like kids on steroids. "Am I right, Auruo? Thinkin' you're high and mighty knowin' all the facts. News for you, buddy. We're not fallin' for it this time." Auruo lies beneath a man's foot with strokes of purple and black across his neck. His chest heaves, indicating that he's still breathing, but from the looks of it, he's far from alive. I watched how it happened. I watched how Auruo came out for a smoke only to be surrounded by his inmates. I watched how they started accusing him of knowing too much about everything, how enraged they became when Auruo accidentally let slip that he had a reliable source. I thought then that Auruo would rat me out, but he didn't.

They threw punches. I stayed low. Helping Auruo didn't cross my mind then, and it's not crossing my mind now. He deserves it. His lies deserve it. He had it coming. They give him a few more swift kicks to the stomach and groin. I light my second cigarette. He rasps out a "wait!" and proceeds to say, "I know — I know who the rat is." The laughter starts. They don't believe him; they don't have a reason to. We're not all dumbasses here. If I'm smart enough to figure out that Auruo lies through his teeth every moment he can, then others can assume the same. And this group, despite acting like monkeys, probably knows their shit. "Listen, I —" Someone smashes their heel against Auruo's mouth, shutting him up for the time being. He sputters, spits out blood and teeth, and takes more blows to the head. "It's the new kid!" The abuse stops.

I stop.

"Tryin' to save your own ass, eh?" One of the guys presses his foot firmly against Auruo's neck. "You're beginning to lose your charm, 'Ruo."

"No," Auruo gasps. His usual snark is gone. He talks in a way I've never heard him talk; he talks as if there's a sword hanging above his head — careful but urgent. "No. It's him. I swear."

"Stop babblin', you sonuvabitch, and give us a real reason we shouldn't kill you here —"

" _Why the hell do you think he follows Levi around_?" He coughs, and blood splatters on one of the guy's shoes. They ignore it. "Use your head! Have you noticed his behavior? Have you con .. considered why he's friendly?" Another sharp inhale. "Of fucking course they would send someone young." While Auruo continues hacking into the ground, the monkeys share looks with each other, and then — fuck me in my fucking ass with a fucking crowbar — they turn to me.

"Oi, Levi!" I acknowledge them with a half-assed wave. They poke Auruo's battered body with their toes. "Do you believe this guy? He's sayin' your twink's the rat. We call bullshit, but he kinda has a point, don't you think?"

Instead of answering immediately, I put out my cigarette (I didn't even get in three puffs, goddamn). "Dunno," I tell them a moment later. "He told me he wasn't." For some reason unbeknownst to me, I want to believe Eren, but as they said — Auruo has a point. Eren's unnecessarily clingy — has always been, actually. If he was onto me in the beginning, then that explains why he won't leave me the fuck alone, why he's not fond of cigarettes, and why he can read _Romeo and Juliet_. It explains his incentive, his intolerance, his intelligence. It also explains why he switched cells with Auruo but that means —

Erwin's siding with him.

Which makes no fucking sense.

Because Erwin's as messed up as I am.

(But Eren  _did_  say he met up with Erwin that one time.)

 _No_. There's a fault. There's a missing factor. Erwin didn't want to get caught. Eren killed three men. It doesn't add up. Someone here is lying, and my bets are on Auruo. A liar is a liar is a liar. Once you start lying, you can't stop, because pride won't let you stop. It snowballs. Lies upon lies upon lies. If pride keeps you alive, then lies give you death. In that case, Auruo's more than dead. And since there's no point in helping those who have long been gone, I turn away and head back inside. Distantly, I hear him calling my name, but I ignore it. He's not calling for help; he's too prideful.

After that incident, a storm brews. It starts with a drizzle — murmurs and whispers, looks and glares. Then it proceeds to rain — pointing fingers, accusing tongues. On the thirteenth day (fourteenth? fifteenth? who gives a damn), there's lightning.

"We have five in the infirmary and fourteen in solitary confinement." Erwin is standing on the second floor, looking over us. "This prison will be under lockdown until everyone calms down." The lockdown lasts three days but the storm continues.

There's thunder.

"I overheard them talking about you," Eren tells me.

"What did they say?"

"They're saying you're the rat." He looks at me then, and I can see his confusion. I can also see his curiosity, his need to know what the hell's going on. I don't have an answer, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell him. There are truthful components to what Auruo said — I'm not saying he's right, but I'm not saying he's wrong either. There's a possibility. Even if nothing makes sense, there's always a possibility.

Eren leans forward. "I don't believe them." He says this in a sympathetic way. As if I need his sympathy. _As if_ I'm affected by all of this.

"What makes you think I'm not the rat?" I could be it. The many times I've visited Erwin could be proof. The information I unconditionally spread could get me hanged. — But I'm not the man. I'm too brutally honest.

"I just don't think you are."

My lips twitch out of amusement. "Are you expecting a 'thank you'?"

He shakes his head. "No. I only wanted you to know that I believe you." He's flawed. There's nothing perfect about him. Despite what he had done, he's still too innocent, too young, too fucking  _beautiful_. But those are the things that make him imperfect. His true flaw is that he trusts too easily, and that level of trust shouldn't be in this society. He's going to get himself killed.

A couple of days later, Erwin makes another announcement — "there's no rat here" — and the storm hits hard. His message doesn't calm us down. Rather, it has the opposite effect. There is no rat?  _Liar_. There is a rat. We don't have a reason to trust his word; we've already lost a reason to trust the government. What makes him any different?  _Nothing_.

There's a riot. Everyone's accusing everyone. It's like watching the Salem Witch Trials, except the court and judge are the accusers themselves. And lemme tell you, it's all fucking hilarious until your ass is about to get hanged. They've gone blind. They're just pointing fingers now, and it's hate, hate,  _hate_. It's that need to release all the pent-up frustration. It's that want to overthrow order and bring back disorder.

Someone shoves me against the wall. He grabs my shoulders, shakes me. I grab his neck, strangle him. Someone else — a guard, another inmate,  _I don't fucking know_  — pulls him away. Whistles blow in attempt to maintain what's left of order but they prove futile. Every hand is sparked with excitement. Every punch is a leeway to pleasure. I haven't felt this rush — haven't felt this inclination to _destroy_ — since _that_ time. And it's exhilarating.

I let myself go. I let my instincts take over. There's no time to think, because it's just red, red,  _red_. Red skies. Red clouds. Red rain. Red storms. Red hurricanes. Red destruction. Red trash. Red dirt. Red hands. Red hands.  _Red hands_  —

Gunshots.

Shouts.

Order,  _order_.

(Darkness.)

Eren comes back to our cell catering a swollen eye. Both of his fists are clenched tight, and they tremble with suppressed fury. He's bleeding from the nose, but he doesn't seem to notice. He only looks — no,  _glares_  — at me. His eyes are dark, brooding — a storm in the goddamn Caribbean. " _I'm not it_ ," he tells me. His voice shakes along with his body as he staggers my way. "They're falsely accusing me. I'm not it." Lips parted, he stops in front of me. "You believe me, don't you?" It's a cry for help, a pitiful kind of plea. I want to console him, but I don't care enough to.

"Calm down," I tell him instead.

" _Do you believe me_?"

I peer up at him. His cheeks are flushed, his lips red. He licks them tentatively, and for the first time, doesn't avert his gaze. Something wet hits the back of my hand. His blood. Mildly disgusted but somewhat pleased, I bring the tail of his shirt up and wipe his nose. He cringes. "It hurts." I ignore his complaint and continue dabbing the area dry. Eventually, the bleeding stops but his upper lip stays stained. I let go of his shirt.

"How did it feel — hitting someone?"

Eren hesitates, then brings his hand up to wipe away the ghost of his blood spill. "I don't .. especially like it."

"But it had to be done, right?"

He nods, still shaking.

"Then you've proved your innocence. No rat's masochistic enough to meddle with violent affairs." But of course, there's always that possibility. Maybe this one's different. Maybe they did throw a few punches.

Eren bites his lip, hesitates again, then asks, "Is there really a rat?"

 _Is there a rat_? That's been the running question for the past two weeks. Is there someone hiding among us? Have they been accused? Have they been to the infirmary? What do they want? What is their motive? Always questions, never answers.

"I don't know." And I really don't. It's a hollow feeling — knowing that something's being kept from you, yet not knowing what that something is. It's an uneasy feeling — wanting an answer, yet not wanting the truth. It's a vicious cycle of questions and questions and questions.

(But never answers.)

The prison goes under another lockdown, yet the storm continues to surge. Though everyone's keeping their cool, there's no sense of calmness. It's the eye of the storm — the grace period before the worst. Usually there's no telling what prisoners will do, but see, because of the lockdown, we haven't had a cigarette in three days. They had collected everyone's pack and lighter as punishment, and for the first two days, it was punishment; now, it's just a pending reason to kill. But no one makes any move. They're waiting for the right moment, and that moment can be any moment. As someone everyone knows, I'm obligated to choose that moment, to lead this riot, this rebellion, but I stay docile. I've had my excitement. I just want to watch.

And watch, I do.

When they permit us to walk around on the fifth day of the lockdown, I come across a fight. It's a peculiar fight — a one on one.

"Give it back!" It's even more peculiar since that's Eren's voice. "I  _said_  give it back!"

Everyone swarms around to see. I curse my mother for her short as fuck height, her fucking genes, and fuck fuck  _fuck_  I want to see what's going on, but it's kinda hard to when everyone's a goddamn big ass titan. I nudge people aside and push my way through to get front row seats. And once I get there, I'm not disappointed.

Eren's teeth bare as his fingers grapple at Jean's outstretched hand. He reaches for — a chain? — but falls an inch short. I turn to the person next to me. "What's going on?" While I mutter this, Eren swings his leg out behind Jean's ankles and pushes him back. Jean falls. I quirk an eyebrow. That's a familiar move.

"The kid was hiding some sort of key around his neck," the guy tells me. "Jean thinks it has something to do with the government." Though he speaks, I don't fully process his words; I'm far too engaged in the scene before me. Jean grabs Eren's foot and pulls him down. They roll about, throwing blind punches and spitting vulgar names. At one point, Jean's on top of Eren, but Eren overcomes him easily. He hooks both of his legs around Jean's neck and brings his head down. That's another familiar move.

It's mine.

Eren's copying me.

"Give it back," he snarls. He's straddling Jean's waist.

"Why should I?" There's no fear in Jean's voice. "Where did you get this key from?"

Eren answers with his fists. He punches and thrashes about, but when this proves useless, his fingers fan out along Jean's neck. The fight only escalates there. A surprising burst of strength has Jean shoving Eren off, and while Eren struggles to compose himself, Jean stands. When they're both back on their feet, Eren charges, rage driven, and it's different. I've never seen Eren like this. I've never seen him lose his head completely. It can only make me wonder — is this how he was when he killed those three? Is this his true nature?

Prison Rule #7:  _Don't underestimate the extent of someone's capability_. If you do, they'll prove you wrong.

He yells, he shouts, and a murderous aura settles over. There's a mixture of blood, a clash of sweaty palms and canine teeth against thick skin. And just as quickly as it started, it stopped. Four guards — two each — pull them apart, and though Jean calms after a few counted seconds, Eren continues thrashing around like a child. "Let me go!" What he lacks in physical strength, he makes up in his booming voice. "The bastard has something of mine!" Even if his voice carries and echoes, it's not strong enough; he's dragged out of ring. And with that, the fight ends and the circle disperses.

To the side, I hear one of the guards — Marco, I'm sure now — asking Jean if he's okay. Whether or not Jean responds, I don't know, because I turn away from him to follow Eren. Wherever the hell he's going. Which isn't to solitary confinement (I guess they're packed full,  _ha_ ), but rather, to our cell. The guards toss him in, allow me to follow, then slide the bars to a locking close. "Keep him calm," they tell me. Keep him calm.  _Keep Eren calm_. That's easier said than done, because he's the fucking storm on a sunny day.

He fumbles with his hands as he paces around the small area. His eyes are blown wide, his mouth narrow. Blood drips from a cut on his forehead, and blood pools at his cheekbones. "I need to get it back," he announces, his body shaking with each word. "I need to get it back." He walks right past me — as if I'm invisible — and latches onto the bars that cage him in. With a few rattles, he draws a guard's attention, but the guard, seeing it's him, turns away. Eren growls and reaches out to grab him back. "Let me out!" He draws the collar closer, chokes the man, then —

I yank him back. I stop watching and yank him back.

And we fall. Him on top of me, my arm on top of him.

He struggles against me, but I refuse to let go. I tighten my hold around his trembling frame, and though he screams in my ear, I shout over him. "Calm the fuck down!" His body jerks. "You're not going to get it back if you continue acting like some rabid dog." He stops yelling, but his chest continues rising and falling rapidly. "Breathe," I tell him. " _Breathe_ , dammit." He convulses one more time then turns into my shoulder and stills. I hold him awkwardly: my arms around him, my hand on the back of his head. He shudders in my embrace.

"I need to get it back," he murmurs. "I can't lose it. I can't —"

"Don't worry about it." I run my fingers through his short locks. "I'll get it back for you." Whether it's my promise that does the trick or not, Eren settles.

The next day, I track Jean down. Bruises have bloomed along his face and neck, decorating his figure in a colorful manner. His lip is busted, his chest looking no better. Despite that, he's sitting up in the infirmary bed and eating some chicken shit. Everyone else around is snoozing, so I breeze past them without sparing a look. Once I reach the foot of Jean's bed, he peers up.

"What?" When he opens his mouth to ask this, I can see the mixture of white and yellow in his mouth. Gross.

Looking up to meet his gaze, I say, "You know what I'm here for."

He chews for another second then swallows. "I don't have it."

"Don't lie to me."

"Why do you want it?"

I glance over at the nurse; he acknowledges me then quickly turns away. I ignore him and continue, "I don't give a damn about it, but I told Eren I'd get it back for him."

Jean takes another bite of his breakfast, and in turn, I reach out and smack the plate off his lap. This, of course, is followed by a loud "Hey!" which I also ignore.

"Give me the key."

"All right, all right. Jesus Christ." He reaches underneath his blanket and draws out the chain from yesterday. "What's so fucking important about it, anyway?" I snatch it from his hand, and before the nurse can get onto me for disrupting the peace (ha,  _peace_ ), I make my way out and head back to the cell.

Eren's ecstatic; his entire face lights up like fucking Christmas when I toss the necklace his way. He looks at it for at least three minutes then puts it around his neck and clutches the key tight. A smile of relief appears and —  _fuck_ , my chest feels warm for some reason. It's not a painful sort of warm but it's warm nonetheless. Is this what a heartburn is?  _Shit_. Sunshine's smile gave me a goddamn heartburn. That's not good. That's not good at all.

Attempting to ignore it, I tilt my head to indicate Eren's necklace. "Why is that important to you?"

I don't know if he heard me, because he doesn't answer. Instead, he climbs down from his bed, comes over to me, and drops to his knees. My eyebrows furrow. He licks his lips and reaches forward to slip his fingers inside my pants — I grab his wrist. He stills and looks up. "Is there a problem?"

"What are you doing?"

He blinks, confused. "I was .. thanking you? Isn't this what people usually do?" Oh, for fuck's sakes. I can tolerate him copying my fighting techniques, but this is taking it a step too far.

I push his head back. "Get up."

Again, Eren blinks. Again, he looks confused. "But don't you want me to —"

"I said get up." This time he obeys without protest. "Have you sucked cock before?" I ask him. He shakes his head, and I roll my eyes. "I don't put my dick anywhere like some horny bastards around here do." If he hasn't had any practice, then he would base everything off of what he has observed — and if he saw me chomp down on Stubbles's dick then —  _let's not talk about that_.

"Do you .. want me to do something else?" Christ. This is why I hate virgins. They always look so fucking innocent, and all you want to do is shove your cock into their mouth to shut them up —

"It's fine. You don't have to thank me." I reach up to ruffle his hair, and in response, he laughs.

And well.

This heartburn is going to be the end of me.

But at least he's learning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for your comments / kudos / etc !!! you guys make me super duper happy aahhh ///


	8. Temperance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #-1: Don't stare at anyone.

What goes up, must come down. After the storm, there is devastation; after ecstasy, there is  _apathy_. There is a feeling of nothingness, of indifference, of simply not caring. Even though there's a hollow feeling in your state of well-being, there's no sadness. Even though there's a reason to smile and laugh, there's no happiness. If anything, there's an irrational want to lash out, to cry, to criticize, but there's no anger. You're tired. After the adrenaline rush, you just want to lie down and sleep forever, but you don't want to close your eyes. There's no fear, there's no anxiety; there's only a feeling of emptiness, as if you're no longer breathing. Living seems foreign, dying is too much work. Apathy. A never-ending cycle of void, a never-ending cycle of  _not feeling_. Apathy. A period of low after a time of high — because  _what goes up, must come down_.

Three days after the uprise, the prison goes dormant. Everyone's worn out. The excitement is over, and everything goes back to normal. Wake up call is at 6:00a.m. sharp. Roll call is at 6:30a.m. No excuses, no exceptions. If you don't get your ass out of bed in time, you don't get breakfast, which I _suppose_ is a loss. Eren makes good chicken shit. There's not a fuck load of salt, rather, there are just eggs, sunny side up. Though the food's all right, people still stay cooped up in their cell until roll call. For the past few days, I followed the trend; I lay awake, wanting sleep but feeling restless. Eren, on the other hand, was up and about every single morning preparing breakfast. I don't know how the hell he does it. I don't know how he has that much energy. But I don't care. He's different, and by now, I've accepted that.

I go to breakfast for the second time this week, and as expected, there's no line. I just grab a tray and walk straight up to Eren who, as always, greets me with that annoying smile. "Morning, Levi," he says, dumping a spoonful of scrambled eggs and seasoned broccoli onto my tray. "Anything else for you?"

"Maybe a little variety."  _Eggs and broccoli again_. I can't tell whether the government's trying to make us healthier or slim us down, but I'd put my cigarettes on the latter.

"There's only so much I can do with eggs and vegetables," Eren replies, mouth still poised in a tight-lipped grin.

I fake a small smile in return — perhaps out of mockery, perhaps out of gratification — but the warmth in that smile doesn't extend. When I grab my tray and turn away, that feigned happiness drops, and that brief moment of breathing slips into nothingness. It's that feeling of apathy — that feeling of _not feeling_. Bitter with withdrawal, I walk over to my table — the table I once claimed as my own but is now home to four others. Only, the house is empty this morning. Auruo's still in the infirmary; Jean's in solitary confinement; and I don't know where the hell Baldy is. He's probably dead. I haven't seen him in a while. Not that it matters. Not that I care. It's rare for me to give a damn these days.

But at one point in my life, I did give a damn. It was back when I would wake up, and the first thing I would feel was the cold seeping through my thin blanket. It was back when I would get ready, and the second thing I would do was go to the kitchen and eat the hard toast someone made for me. It was back when I would watch TV, and the third thing I would say was " _it's broke_." It was back when I was four and ignorant. In those days, I didn't understand why my next door neighbor had thicker blankets, pancakes for breakfast, and a working TV. I didn't understand why that someone who made me toast was always saying " _no_ " and apologizing. I didn't know what that someone meant when they told me " _we're broke_ "; and I didn't know what it meant to be abandoned until it happened.

The past is the past, though. They're dead. They've long been dead. And they will continue to be dead. I don't remember their faces, their names, or their purposes. I just remember their sins, because they never really had any virtues.

In actuality, there are only a handful of people who have virtues.

"Hey."

And Eren's one of them.

I look up to see him sitting down across from me. "Hey."

He's not innocent, but he's pure. He has hands tainted by blood, but he has a heart surrounded by ignorance. But that wall of ignorance is cracked and soon, it'll break. I want to witness that.  _No_. I want to be the one who breaks it. I want to be the one who steals it. I want that pureness.

"What are you thinking about?" He scoops up some scrambled eggs and shoves them into his mouth. "You haven't touched your food."

My gaze drops to my tray and true to his words, I haven't taken a bite. Guess I'm not that hungry. "I'm just tired." I want to say more but at the same time, I don't want to talk. I want to go lie down (forever), but I don't want to leave (yet).

"You all right?" He shouldn't sound so concerned.

"Yeah." I shouldn't sound so pathetic.

He hums as he continues eating his breakfast. All that anger from a couple of days ago is gone, so now he's at his low.  _What goes up, must come down_ , after all. But his ups and downs differ from others; he has no connections. While we gradually work our way up to our highs, he jumps. While we fall to our lows at a consistent rate, he dives. (Not that it matters anyway. _Not that I care_.)

A few counted moments later, he peers up and says, "I don't know much about you."

And I say, "There's not much to know." Aside from motive and mentality, I have no other information to give.

"What's your favorite color?"

My brow creases. It's a perfectly innocent question but _really_? Of all fucking questions he could've asked me, he asks me about _my favorite color_? "How is that important?"

"Mine's blue."

I purse my lips. _Favorite color_ , huh. I don't have one, namely because I've never had a choice in color. It's either orange or orange nowadays. But I don't say orange; instead, I meet his gaze and say, "Green." Because that's the color of his stupid, bright eyes.

"Your turn to ask a question." By the sound of his reply, it seems like he didn't pick up on the reason I said ' _green_.' That's just like him.

"What's your favorite smell?"

"Ocean Breeze." Wait,  _that's a smell_  — ? "Yours?"

"I like the smell of the soap we use."

He finishes the last of his scrambled eggs and moves to engulf his steamed broccoli. "Why do you like cleaning so much?"

That's easy. Cleaning gives me the power to erase any imperfections of the past. With a sweep and a wipe, all the dirt, blood, and evidence become invisible to the naked eye. Of course, they still exist, but they will only exist if I remember that they do. But that's all too much to say. "Cleaning gave me two hundred and fifty years instead of a death sentence." At that, he laughs (always laughing, always  _joyful_  — how is he not tired?). Ignoring the cheerful sound, I ask, "What's so special about the ocean?"

And he stops laughing. "It's .." He hesitates. ".. peaceful, I guess. I hear most of it hasn't been explored, so I want to go to a place where people haven't really been."

Hm. That's something. "You make me want to go there."

"Then we'll go together."

What an idiot. We're not getting out of this hellhouse anytime soon, at least not with 250 years and a life sentence. But I don't burst his bubble. "All right," I say.

"All right," he agrees. "One more question — how old are you?"

"Thirty."

".. How long have you been thirty?"

Are you fucking kidding me right now? "Piss off."

Even though I think _goddammit, Sunshine_ , I feel my lips curling and my cheeks tightening. Someone once told me that smiling makes you feel better. I don't know if that's true, but this feeling of indifference is suddenly gone. I feel like I can get up and do something (smoke a cigarette maybe), and for some time I do. After another brief discussion over nothing important, Eren and I go to the library and — _books_. Dusty books. Torn books. Small as balls books. Big ass books. And then you have  _Romeo and Juliet_ , the classic book. While Eren searches for something to read, I flip through the tragic play. Though I know what happens, I still don't understand what the fuck Romeo's saying. I just know Juliet's rated ten out of ten on the  _would bang_  scale.

"How do you understand any of this?" I flip to another page. The only words I comprehend there are ' _you are too hot_ ' (said by Lady Capulet herself, _damn, get you some_ ).

"Understand what? — Oh, Armin explained everything to me."  _Of course_ , Armin explained it. It's always Armin. "He understood everything the first time he read it. I had to read it three times." Eren pauses for a moment then says, "He's actually the one that told me about the ocean, but he tends to make things sound cooler than they really are."  _Right_.

Whatever.

I close the text and hold it out to him. "Read it to me."

"The entire thing?"

"We have more than a few years to waste, don't we?"

Eren gives me a look, then takes the play and sits down. Despite all the dust fluttering around, I follow suit. He opens the book to the first page. "Just read it?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow at me.

"Yeah."

I admit, I don't give a damn about  _Romeo and Juliet_. I only want him to stop talking about this Armin person. Not that I have anything against Armin — I just don't want to hear about the life Eren had outside of prison. But that doesn't matter now. Shrugging off that thought, I rest my chin on my palm and listen to him read. He has a nice voice — not rough, not smooth, not loud, not soft. It's almost boyish, and it's strangely calming. I'm noticing this now. After months of telling him to shut up, I don't want him to shut up. I want him to keep reading.

No one has ever read to me, because no one really had the time to, but right here, right now, there's time. There's endless time, and it's  _shared_  time. Auruo has another five years. Jean's on parole. Erwin can quit anytime he wants to. But Eren — Eren has a life sentence, which is the longest sentence next to mine. That's _time_. And with this time, we can do an infinite amount of things that these prison walls allow.

Which isn't a lot of things.

There are spoken and unspoken prison rules. The spoken rules keep you safe; the unspoken ones keep you sane.

Eren has broken most of the unspoken rules, which explains why he's here reading to me.  _Me_ , of all people. If that's not insane, then I don't know what insanity is.

(But maybe it's a good kind of insanity, because it's an insanity that keeps him close.)

I watch his lips and how they move with grace. I watch his eyes, how they skim the page. I watch him closely, and all I see is someone who deserves another chance. He probably had a family and a number of friends. He probably had a future and a dream. He probably had everything anyone could ever want, but then one mistake fucked it up. I don't know what that mistake is, but it can't be that awful, because no crime is worse than mine.

"Levi." The moment he calls my name is the moment I realize I've been staring. "Are you listening?" It's also the moment I realize I've broken Prison Rule #1:  _Don't stare at anyone_.

"Yeah, I'm listening."

He goes back to reading, and I go back to staring. He stirs me in a particular way. I don't feel anything towards him, but I — like his company. He's good company. Maybe even the best company I've had in a while.

At a point, he stops reading and asks, "Do you believe in love?" It's such a stupid question that I don't even answer. "I mean, have you ever been in love? Not like  _Romeo and Juliet_ -love but .. you know, have you ever liked someone?" He catches my eye, and I see no amusement. The little shit's seriously asking me this.

"I've never cared for someone, if that's what you mean."

 _Love_. I don't like that word. It speaks to me in a language that I will never understand.

"I haven't experienced it either." His lips remain parted. "I'd like to — someday, but prison's not the place, huh?" And that's why he deserves a second chance. He needs to get out of here, find someone, get married, have kids, and live happily ever fucking after with his perfect family, perfect friends, and perfect life.

"Don't worry about it. You'll find someone."

".. Yeah."

He closes the book. Pauses. Leans over me to put it back on the shelf. Pauses again. Pulls back slowly. Pauses a final time. He stares at me, and I stare at him. Absolutely nothing runs through my mind, but I can almost  _see_  the wheels turning in his. He's thinking, and I'm not so sure if I like what he's thinking about, because he leans towards me and — I push him away.

"Don't."

He freezes, stares at me with those wide eyes, then slowly settles back in his own space. "Sorry."

" _Don't_."

Don't do this, don't do that. Don't stare. Don't ask. Don't assume. Don't touch. Don't hope. Don't trust. Don't underestimate. But most importantly is Prison Rule #0:  _Don't get attached_. That should be the basic unspoken prison rule. Don't get attached, because attachment is the one-way road to betrayal. There's a reason why we're born individuals. There's a reason why we all have one heart. If we were meant to get attached, then we would have two — one for us and one for another — but we don't have two; we have one — and that one is for ourselves. Any human and any animal can betray another, but we cannot betray ourselves, because it's not betrayal if we anticipate it.

It's not that I fear betraying him; it's just that he's far too pure.

"I'll .. go." He stands up and turns to leave.

I should let him go, but instead, I say, "I thought you were straight."

"Comfort knows no bounds." He looks over his shoulder at me and gives me a smile that softens his expression. "Just forget it happened."

Here's the thing about me: when someone tells me not to do something, it makes me want to do it even more.  _Just forget it happened_? It's not that easy. I think about it on our way back to our cell. I think about it at dinner and then at breakfast the next morning. I don't stop thinking about it until Jean approaches me at lunch, flocking four guards behind him.

"Grab them."

I don't know what the fuck's going on, but one moment I'm eating lunch with Eren, and the next, I'm struggling for freedom. They grab my arms and yank it back. There's no pain but there's this blur of  _red_. Eren shouts something, and at the same time, my head hits the table. Hard. That blur of red transforms into a blur of other colors — swarming colors — darker colors — and then the worst color:  _white_. By time my vision clears, I see Jean sitting across from me. He's not wearing orange. I raise my head and chains rattle behind me. My shoulders strain, but I can't move them much. My wrists are handcuffed.

"You once asked me if I thought you killed those three." Jean puts something on the table and slides it over to me. I look down, and my stomach churns. It's a cut throat razor. I peer back up, and Jean leans forward. "If I say I think you did, does that mean you're guilty?" He picks up the bag containing the razor. "You can wash this all you want, but Kareen Ollio's blood is all over the blade. And what else is there? Your fingerprints and —" No. Don't. _Do not_. "— Eren's."

Is he fucking with me? There's no way —  _I hid it_. How did he find it? How did Jean — he was in solitary confinement — he was —

Fuck him.

 _Damn him_.

"You are both under arrest."

The guards drag me out of my seat, and across the way, I see two other guards yanking Eren up from the ground. He's seething, yelling, but I don't pay attention to him. I pay attention to Jean who turns his back on me and starts walking away. He's perfectly fine, and that pisses me off. He has guards protecting him, and _that_ pisses me off even more.

My knees scrape the floor as I'm tugged along. To my left, prisoners watch. To my right, they stare. In front, Eren thrashes about, trying to break loose and when he does, he runs to jump on Jean — but before he can, he's pulled back. That doesn't stop him, though. Bones crack, noses bleed, yet he continues to scream.

" _Are you all deaf_? You shit on me for being the rat, but none of you are doing a goddamn thing now!  _Jean's the rat_! He betrayed all of you!" There's a tremor. Whispers. Glances. "Why the hell aren't you doing anything?  _Are you going to let him get away_?"

Bitterness.

Stirring, stirring.

 _Anger_.

Something happens. Something  _snaps_ , and there's more yelling. A swarm of orange closes in, and the hands that hold my arms in place are suddenly gone. In front of me, Eren turns around and starts my way, but he trips and is soon trampled by orange. I take a step towards him, but I'm pushed back. There's more shouting, and all around, there's a heavy concentration of  _orange_. Seconds pass, and I look — I look for Eren, but he's no where.

" _Eren_!"

I can't even hear myself.

But I can hear Erwin. " _Fire_!" That's the only warning we get before fireworks go off.

It's the start of mayhem. Everyone scrambles under the tables, and I follow suit.

"Hold!" At Erwin's command, the gunshots stop, but there's a fight that continues.

From where I lie, I can see the hands that grip Jean's neck, throttling him. It's a one-sided fight, though; Jean doesn't respond accordingly. He just lies there, letting his head flop. And then there's another voice —

"Stop!" I don't recognize the voice, but I recognize the face. It's the freckled guard. Marco. " _Stop_!" He grabs the man and pulls him off Jean, but that doesn't end anything. Instead, it initiates another brawl. They grapple at each other, and I see no regret. I only see anger and intentions to kill.

I look up at the second floor where Erwin's standing, and I watch as he turns to the guard next to him. I don't hear what he says, but I do read his lips: " _Fire_."

And the guard shoots.

Both Marco and the man fall, and after a few silent seconds, the man stands with blood blossoming across his orange uniform. A number of other guards usher to grab him, but he doesn't resist. They take him away, and there's peace. No one speaks, no one breathes. Above us all, Erwin watches, apathetic. And soon enough, people around me start to stir.

I'm the first to crawl out from underneath and stand. I'm also the first to greet the dead and gone. Jean lies before me, his eyes wide, his lips parted. His perfect white button up is now tainted with blood. Probably not his blood, though. Marco lies faced down in proximity to him, his hair damp, his uniform spotted with crimson. Blood — his blood for certain — pools around his head. Neither of them moves. Neither of them breathes. Both of them are dead.

Someone comes over and stands beside me, and I don't need to spare a look to know it's Eren. He doesn't stand close, but he's close enough. For a while, we don't utter a word. Actually, no one speaks. Around us, prisoners filter about, shuffling along to take a look before walking back to their cells, shaking their heads, as if nothing really happened. When most of them are gone, I look up to meet Erwin's steady gaze. It's a cold gaze, an indifferent, uncaring gaze.

I look back down at the bodies lying before me.

"He had a family," Eren murmurs. "He had a wife and a kid. .. I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't want to see him like this. _I didn't_ —"

"He lied." My eyes flicker from Jean to Marco. "He didn't have a wife or a kid." If he did, he didn't deserve them.

"But he was one of us. He fought with us.  _We_  fought the other day —"

"He wanted to see if you were capable of killing someone." And it worked. He had already known about the razor (somehow). He had already suspected us. He just needed to see who had the capability to murder. He was probably there to witness what I had done in the showers, but that didn't satisfy him. So he got Eren to show his true nature, and like the _stupid fucking idiot_ that he was, Eren fell for it. "He betrayed us." He betrayed us all.

Eren shifts. "He was only doing his job."

I turn to him. "Whose side are you on?"

"Yours." He looks back at me, and then without another word, crouches down and closes Jean's eyes. After that, he stands and walks away.

I don't follow. I just stand and stare until I remember something.

 _Romeo and Juliet_.

Jean, an undercover cop who posed as a prisoner, and Marco, a prison guard who probably knew nothing. They were more fortunate than Romeo and Juliet in that they didn't have conflicting families, but unfortunately like them, they had the same tragic fate.

This prison has seen many tragedies, but today it has witnessed true tragedy,  _for never was a story of more woe than this of Jean and his Marco_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yes, i did change up the chapter titles. the sentence i had was 14 words long, and this fic is going to be longer than 14 chapters. plus, some of you asked whether or not i was going to do the seven heavenly virtues. i wasn't planning on it, but after some thought, i was like why not.
> 
> also sorry not sorry for making a lot of references (o:
> 
> edit: this is one of the things i didn't do intentionally but --- levi said he was thirty years old right. "thirty" sounds a lot like "dirty" don't you think haha ha (this sounded cooler in my head but it's like 2AM ok)


	9. Chastity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #-2: Don't ask people about the crime they committed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: somewhat smut??? (i would like to apologize before hand for it b/c this is my technical first time writing something like this so sorry if it's bad i tried my best otl ;;;;)
> 
> \-- also i'm dedicating this chapter to **mitsu** who actually encouraged the semi-smut.

Justice is _fair_. When you steal someone's happiness, you sacrifice your freedom. Justice is _equal_. When you take someone's dignity, you forfeit your morality. Justice is _just_. When you claim someone's life, you lose the right to live.

Justice is _unfair_. When you steal someone's happiness, the government throws you a pity party. Justice is _unequal_. When you take someone's dignity, the government gives you 250 years in prison. Justice is _unjust_. When you claim someone's life, the government keeps you breathing.

Justice is _nonexistent_ , because one person's justice is another person's injustice. When that inmate suffocated and killed the rat, we prisoners saw it as just. When that same man strangled and murdered Jean Kirschtein, an undercover cop who was only doing his job, society saw it as unjust.

"Justice," Erwin starts, looking up at me, "is an exchange. When something is taken, something must be given." He folds his hands together and leans across his desk. Suave, as normal. Charming, as usual. Fucking  _smug_ , as always. "Back in the day, it was a life for a life, but things have changed. Levi — Ollio's blood is on your razor. They want an explanation."

I can lie and say I helped him shave once and my hand  _accidentally_  slipped, but I keep my mouth closed. If I save my ass, then Eren gets the blame, and no offense, but he's a shitty liar. He wouldn't be able to lie his way out.

Noting my silence, Erwin goes on, "I trust you have your reasons for keeping quiet, and so do I." He picks up the bag containing my razor and opens a drawer. I watch, lips pressed, as he drops it in and locks it away. "I will deal with the situation you're in, but like I said, justice is an exchange. If I do this for you, you have to promise me something."

Justice is a compromise.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask. Suck a dick? Spread my legs? Sex is always the exchange here.

"Don't make me regret my decision." He looks at me — really looks at me — then stands and walks over to a picture frame hanging on the wall to his right. His lips don't move, but his eyes skim the framed award.  _Notable Recognition of Criminal Justice is hereby presented to Erwin Smith for his service to his country_. "A few weeks ago, Jean came to me saying he suspected you and Eren of killing those three. I sent him away, saying I would look into it, but I knew he would take matters into his own hands."

"So you knew who the rat was after all."

"Let me finish." He pauses for a moment, then continues, "The next day, I called you in to warn you. I figured you would tell Jaeger but not Bossard. I underestimated your chattiness."

My eyes narrow. I still can't read him. He's not like Eren; he doesn't show pure emotion. I doubt the bastard even has emotions. I saw the cold when he overlooked Jean and Marco's death. I saw the ice storm when he turned and walked away. " _If I do this for you_ "? Don't make me laugh. There is no me. There has never been a me. It's always "that lonely boy" or "that slutty thing."  _What's in a name_? Not a fucking rose, I'll tell you that.  _What's in a name_? A place. _A will_.

"You wanted that information spread," I repeat.

Erwin doesn't reply. He just stares at his award as if he's deaf to my words. There are only a few things I know about Erwin Smith. I know he looks like a model that walked right out of a PlayGirl magazine. I know he likes keeping his office neat and organized. I know he gets off when I ride his cock and hiss obscenities like " _fuck me, claim me, own me_." I don't know his favorite color (he probably doesn't have one). I don't know his favorite smell (he probably doesn't have one either). I don't even know how old he is.

But you know what, I don't need to know any of that. I only need to know that he's a selfish bastard who doesn't care about anything if it doesn't benefit him. He's just like everyone else in the government. Selfish, untrustworthy, and corrupt.

"Why?" I ask him.  _Why are you doing this_? I don't owe you anything. Stop using me for your games. I'm not a toy you can just play with and toss away. I don't want to be an object. I don't want to be a  _thing_. What is your mentality? What is your  _motive_?

He turns to me — slowly, like a careful wolf sniffing out its prey — and then he stops and meets my eyes. "I wanted to give you a second chance."

Now what am I? An experiment?

"I don't need your pity." It's not like it matters, anyway. "Let them convict me."  _Let them_  blame someone innocent.  _Let them_  have the justice they want.

Justice.

 _Ha_.

Justice is the epitome of bullshit.

"Do you really want that?" Erwin sinks back down in his seat, but his eyes remain still. He's too calm, it's unnatural. "Levi, look at me. I'm risking my freedom for you." — But  _why_? Why risk something as precious as that on someone who has no place? Everyone's fucking stupid. They don't appreciate what they have. They always want more. I don't know what Erwin's gaining from pitying me. I've already given him everything there is to be given. What more does he want? Another award? He already has twenty of those in this goddamn office. That's twenty more than I'll ever have.

I should have killed him when I had the chance. I should have killed a lot of people when I had the chance. I don't know what stopped me. I've killed before, and I'll kill again. It's just — there's a wall. I kill to kill, but I don't kill when I _want_ to; I kill when I _need_ to. I don't need to kill Erwin, but that sure as hell sounds nice.

"Do what you want," I tell him. And I leave. Just like that.

It's so simple to walk away.

It's so simple to desire someone, to over-consume something, to do nothing. It's so simple to get jealous, to spark anger, to want more. It's so simple to be selfish.

It's not so simple to stay pure. It's not so simple to control yourself, to chase after. It's not so simple to befriend liars, to wait forever, to give anything. It's not so simple to confess everything.

It's not so simple to care.

But it's so simple to hate.

It's so simple to be a sinner rather than a saint.

Because when you're a sinner, you see the truth. You see how horrible people are. You see how fucked up justice is. And you see how those you trust eventually become those who lie.

The man I called my father said he would come back. The woman I called my mother promised she would never forget. The other man and woman I called my foster parents swore they would love me. The king of kings I called Erwin Smith claimed he would help me.

 _Ha_.

I've created my own throne. I am my own king.

And a king helping a king?

That can only end in betrayal.

But you know what? There was a point when I lusted after Erwin. I wanted to scratch that perfect face and dishevel that flawless hair. There was a point when I ate all of him. I scrambled to suck that thick cock and mark that smooth back. There was a point when I let him do whatever he wanted with me. There was a point when I got sick thinking about him taking someone else, when I killed that someone out of spite. There was a point when I clung to Erwin, when I wanted all of his attention to myself. But those days are over. I don't need him. I don't need anyone.

"Levi!"

 _Except Eren_.

I need Eren to keep me entertained.

"What?" When I feel a portion of my bed sinking down, I roll over to acknowledge him. "Where have you been?" He had been gone the entire morning.

"I was talking to my attorney."  _Well, then_. "She said she's still working on my case, so I might be eligible for a pardon or something like that." Eren leans back on my bed —  _my_  bed that's reserved for  _one_  damn person to occupy at  _one_  damn time — and he sighs.  _Happily_.

Scoffing, I nudge him with my foot. "You'll be eligible. You couldn't have done anything _that_ bad, right?" They hand out life sentences like cookies on Christmas these days.

Eren doesn't answer, doesn't even bother to shift. I quirk an eyebrow. What is this silence supposed to mean? That I'm right? Or that he did something worse? Okay, so  _maybe_  he's not the embezzlement type of guy. Maybe he's more prone to assault.

"Do you really want to know?" He sits up and looks over at me. There's no playful tone, no childish grin. It's amusing how serious he's taking this. Isn't life supposed to be all  _fun and games_? Aren't we supposed to  _laugh_  over our mistakes?

"Try me."

How bad can it really be? What crime is he capable of that I haven't seen myself?

"I killed three men."

Huh.

Well.

All right.

That shouldn't be surprising. He killed Stubbles and the two Lankys. What difference does three others make? — A lot, apparently, because for some time, I've forgotten that he actually  _did_  kill those three. But I guess that's the consequence of breaking Prison Rule #2:  _Don't ask people about the crime they committed_.

"Not bad," I say after a while. "I'm sure you had a reason."

Eren hesitates. "Well, I — they kidnapped my sister, so I went after them." He bites his lip, glances away, then glances back and meets my curious gaze. "I only did it to protect her. That was all I was thinking. I wanted to protect her. They were about to — I didn't want to lose her. I didn't —"

"Hey, hey." I reach over and grab his wrist to stop him from biting into his hand again. "It's all right. They're gone. They're dead."

His jaw clenches. "I didn't want to kill them, but if I didn't, they would've — I  _needed_  to kill them. That was the only way. Is that — is that bad?"

Maybe bringing this topic up wasn't the brightest idea. He's rocking back and forth now, and though I hold him still, he trembles. For a fleeting moment, I fear an explosion of anger. I don't know why I fear for him — but I hold him down,  _goddammit_ , I hold him down.

"Am I wrong?" he asks, quietly — quieter than he has ever been, quieter than the silent shakes of his fingers and lips — quietly, softly. "Does this make me a monster?"

 _No_ , I want to tell him.  _No_ , _it makes you more human than anything_. But instead of that, I say, "You did what you had to do. Don't regret the choice you made." I've regretted many things. I should have done this, I shouldn't have done that — but in the end, does it really matter what I did and didn't do? The past is the past. I can't change it no matter how much I want to.

He doesn't reply; he just stares on, trembling. I get a feeling that he's not telling me something, but I don't ask. If he wants to tell me, he'll tell me when the time comes. If he doesn't, then it's probably best for me to stay ignorant. Everything would have been better if I had been ignorant. If I didn't know this and if I didn't understand that, then maybe I would be frolicking through a field of flowers now instead of sitting here, waiting for death to take me. But I shouldn't regret knowing, because knowing has taught me a lesson no teacher could ever teach.

The day passes in a hush-hush manner. I don't see Erwin, but I see a lot of Eren. After that confession, he's been keeping it down. He doesn't joke around, doesn't try picking fights with me — he's strangely submissive, and I don't like that. I want him to challenge me. I want him to destroy my throne, but at the same time, I want to control him. I don't want him to win. What kind of predicament is this?

Another day goes by, and it's like he's not even there. At breakfast, he opens his mouth to say something, but he closes it immediately when I look up. At lunch, he doesn't even look my way. At dinner, I'm fed up.

"Why are you acting like this?  _It's done_. You can't take it back. Stop thinking about it, Eren. There's not —"

"You don't understand!" He slams his hands down on the table and stands. Heads turn, curious eyes watch. "You don't know  _anything_  about me." And he goes. No punch, no kick, no fight. He just goes. It's a shame.

If Jean were here, he would've laughed. If Auruo were here, he would've scoffed. If Baldy were here, he would've — I don't know what he would've done, but that doesn't matter. None of them are here. I eat my dinner in peace and quiet, but there's not much peace. The food tastes bland. My head feels dizzy — yet the world is still. I close my eyes and try to breathe, but with each breath I take, my throat constricts. Eren's right. I don't understand.

When I head back to my cell after washing up, I find myself wanting to talk to Eren. When I see him huddled up on his bunk, I keep my mouth closed and back down. I climb into bed and throw the covers over me, and from then on, I wait for lights out. I try to sleep, but my eyes betray me. I look about, searching for something in the darkness — I see light, two, three streams of light, all from the prison guards walking about. Then I hear it — loud squeaking, harsh panting, frequent slaps — the faggots are going at it again. They haven't gone at it in a while (or maybe they have, and I haven't been noticing).

Regardless, I roll onto my stomach and shove my face into my pillow. That doesn't block the sounds out at all, but it helps me focus on the noise above me. Eren's moving a lot. I don't know what the hell he's doing, but it doesn't sound like he's jerking off. It's more like he's having a goddamn seizure or —

"Levi?"

I peek over my shoulder, and in the pitch black, I can make out his outline standing next to the foot of my bed. What the hell, Sunshine.

"Are you awake?"

Why do they always ask that? "I am now," I say, pushing myself up into a sitting position. "What, did you have a nightmare?"  _Aw, poor baby_. (Suck it up, bitch.)

"No, I just .." He sits on my bed. "Sorry for yelling at you earlier."  _Oh_ , so that's what this is all about.

"It's fine. I don't care." Even though I say this, he doesn't move. I may not know much about him, but I know what he's thinking right now. "Don't regret it," I tell him. He's too soft. He's really too soft. And that's going to end him. There are many other things that will bring him down, but having such a kind heart is going to exterminate him completely.

(But why should I care? When have I ever cared?)

The fuck-bunnies are climaxing; I can hear it in their grunts.

And that's when I decide to do something.

"Eren, come here." I feel him shift towards me without much hesitation, and I feel his heat close in as he settles a breath away. "You wanted to suck me off, right?"

I can almost feel the rising temperature in his cheeks before he answers, "Yeah — I mean, I could, if you .. want me to."

"Are you horny?"

"Well I, um —"

"I'll teach you." Fuck innocence, and fuck purity. I reach over and slide my fingers along his thighs. "Are you okay with this?" I ask, because I don't want him to regret anymore.

He shuffles a little but doesn't reject my touch. "Yeah, I mean — yeah. Yeah, I'm okay with this."

" _Yeah_?" I echo, pressing my palm flat against his crotch. "You want this?" I dampen my lips as I trace the outline of his protruding erection. He makes an incoherent noise and with that, I take full control. My fingers slip into his pants and ghost along his thick nest of pubic hair. "Have you ever gotten a blowjob?"

"Not .. not  _really_." What the fuck is ' _not really_ ' supposed to mean? You've either gotten one or not. No one half-sucks a dick, what the shit. "I mean —"

"Just shut up. You're ruining the mood." As I sink down in front of him, my fingers curl around his throbbing cock. With a stroke, he sucks in a breath; with another stroke, he whines. And  _damn_ , I can imagine flipping him over and claiming his sweet, virgin ass. I bet he's tight. I bet he'll just suck me in like all virgin asses do. But that's for another time. Right now, he's already a mess, and I haven't even put my mouth on him yet. "Hey."

" _Hm_?" It's not a hard 'hm;' It's a soft, drawn out — mewled, almost - 'hm.'

And  _fuck_ , I don't reply with words; I reply with my mouth. Tongue sliding across my upper row of teeth, I lean down and press my lips against his clothed crotch. As my teeth latch onto the fabric, I inhale his scent. Musky. Dirty. But oddly arousing. I like that.  _A lot_. Tilting my head slightly, I mouth at his cock. I slide my lips along his bulge, taunting him with what's to come. When he lifts his hips, a silent signal to tell me to keep going, I pull his dick out and let it rest against my cheek. I breathe more of him in. Sweaty. Filthy. But strangely addicting. I nose through his pubic hair and kiss the foul place underneath his balls. He shivers, and I continue. My hand ghosts along his slim hips as my mouth trails down his throbbing length. I want to shove him down my throat, I want to gag on his cock — but no, I want to taunt him first.

"Come  _on_ ," he whines. His hand is raking through my hair, clenching it at times, but mostly running through it. "Stop teasing me .. p- _please_." Always the gentleman.

I wrap my lips around one of his balls and give it a gracious lick. He arches up, but I keep him down. My nails dig into his skin, marking him as mine and mine alone, and when he doesn't protest, I sink my nails in deeper and drag them across his thigh. Mine. All  _mine_. After kneading his balls with my tongue, I slide my mouth up along his dick, breathing hot air along the way in a manner that makes Eren shake with enthusiasm. When I reach the tip, I close my lips around his head and prod the entry with the flat of my tongue. I want to latch onto his foreskin and lick it clean from the inside out, but I know better. He's still sensitive, and I don't want to over-stimulate him just yet.

As his thighs tremble to remain open, I give a tentative suck at his head before pulling back. His hand doesn't stop moving; it combs through my damp hair, and at times, delivers a gentle push. When I feel that simple gesture, I let desire drag me in. My mouth waters as I lap around the base of his cock. Spit runs down my chin as I nuzzle against his bush of hair that smells  _so fucking wonderful_  and drives me  _fucking insane_  and fuck — he's whimpering. He wants more. He needs more. And all I want to do is give him more. I want to make him into a wanton mess. I want to make him beg with that dirty mouth and pretty lips. I want to fuck him — shit. I want to claim him,  _own_  him. I want to steal that virginity, that innocence, that  _purity_. I want to corrupt him in the worst possible way, and I want —  _I want_  —

"— to come," he whispers, tightening his grip on my hair. "Let me come, Levi,  _please_. I —"

I slobber all over his dick, but that's not enough; I need more. Drawing one of my hands back from clawing at his hips, I curl my fingers around his cock and lick my lips as I begin stroking him. Spit dampens my palm, and it's fucking disgusting, but I'm past caring. I nudge his thighs open, and put my mouth back on him. This time, I fall to temptation. I let the head of his length push past boundaries. My eyes close to seal the weak tears in, and when I feel ready, I allow my throat to greet him. I swallow him inch by inch until his pubic hair tickles my nose. But I don't stop there; no matter how fucking gross this is, I don't stop.

My throat constricts. I can hardly breathe, but  _shit_ , it feels amazing being on the edge. It feels amazing having someone's cock so deep down your throat that you can hear your lungs screaming at you. It feels so amazing, so  _fucking nice_. — And now Eren's tugging at my hair, telling me to  _breathe, breathe_ , but I don't want to breathe. I want him to pull harder — I want him to yank my hair and treat me like a fucking  _whore_. I want him to be rough, to fuck my face with his virgin cock, to make me feel pain — because that's how I know I'm still alive. That's how I know I'm still breathing.

But he doesn't do that. He caresses me with words, telling me to  _slow down_ , telling me I should pull back before he comes in my mouth. I don't listen to him (I've never been good at listening, anyway). When he arches back and whines, I draw up, sucking him along the way. And  _then_  I breathe.

"Levi, I'm —"

"Come on." My voice sounds scratchy, and it feels weird to speak, but no matter — " _Come for me, Sunshine._ "

I suck at his head, I roll my tongue along the side, and I encourage him to spill with my throat. His fingers bunch my hair, and he gently pushes my forehead back — as if wanting me off — but I don't let go. I grab his hips and look up, and though I see nothing but darkness, I know he sees me, because he fucking moans and with that — succumbs to the demon that is lust.

He releases himself in my mouth, and in doing so, his grip on my hair relaxes. His body shakes underneath my fingertips, and his voice whines with satisfaction. I swallow as much of his cum as I can manage, but when it overwhelms me, I pull away. He squirts onto my lazy tongue and my tired lips, and after he finishes, he grabs my shoulders and pulls me in. I can barely comprehend what he's doing, but I know his hand is flying up and down my dick, and I know that I'm quickly becoming undone. He pants my name in my ear, and he soothes me with words of grace as he brings me over the edge and fuck fuck  _fuck_  — I'm his.  _I'm his_.

Something happens — either that or nothing happens.

I slump onto my back. My chest heaves. Across the way, I hear Eren trying to tame his own breathing. We're silent for a while, and all around us, the prison sleeps. I can feel my eyelids growing heavy. I can feel my body losing connection. I can feel — the bed moving and the warmth pulling away and —

" _Stay_." I don't recognize the word, but I recognize my voice. "Stay with me, Eren."

Darkness is a terrible thing, because it won't let me see. I don't know what face Eren's making — I don't know how he's responding to all of this. All I know is that he's panting. He's tired. But I suppose darkness is also a wonderful thing, because it hides how  _pathetic_  I probably look right now. — It doesn't matter, though. The space next to me dips, and a moment later, the warmth returns.

He doesn't touch me; I don't touch him. We lie there, side by side, letting our breaths even out in synchronized time. My trembles fade into nothing, the adrenaline rush is over. Despite that, my heart still races over the heat Eren's emitting. I'm calm, but I'm not calm. I'm freezing, but I'm burning. This sensation of euphoria is relaxing, and I feel as if I can sleep in peace now — except, as always, Eren doesn't allow me such luxury.

"Levi."

"Mm?"

"I wasn't honest with you. I .. I didn't tell you everything." He takes in a sharp inhale, then lets it out in an equally strong exhale. "My dad .. he was in debt. He owed a lot of people, and he probably thought he could get away with it if he disappeared but — they came one night and took Mikasa. I couldn't save her — I tried, but I .. I was too weak. I couldn't do anything. I was afraid to."

His breathing hitches, but nonetheless, he continues, "They called the next day and — and demanded ransom. Demanded pay. _Forty million_. They threatened to kill her if we called the police, but we called anyway, and .. they set up something to track the call.  _They_  called again two days later and told us they needed the money by tomorrow or she'll die. The police tracked down the line — I knew who it was, and I couldn't sit back and do nothing. I went after them. I went — with a knife — I planned, no, I  _wanted_  to kill them."

(Darkness is an awful thing, because it won't let me help him.)

"I broke in and I saw — I saw Mikasa tied up —  _naked_ , she was naked, and there were — there were cuts all over her body.  _They tortured her_. She didn't do anything to them, but they tortured — when she saw me, she was crying, and Mikasa's always been like a big sister to me. She never cried .. she was always strong, so I lost it when I saw her like that. One of the guys was right there, and he was taunting me, saying that — saying that I was  _stupid_  to come here, and I — I don't know what came over me. I lost it.  _I killed him_ , Levi."

Eren grabs my arm. I let him.

"I killed the second one, too. I don't know how many times I stabbed him — the court said fourteen — but I just wanted him  _dead_. I didn't want him to hurt Mikasa any more. And while I was cutting her loose, the third one came .. surprised me, and I dropped the knife, and he came at me — he had me against the wall. He was going to kill me, but then Mikasa —  _she saved me_. She used the knife I brought and she — she killed him. I only killed two of them, but I couldn't let them arrest her. I didn't want her to suffer anymore — I didn't want her to be in here. I wanted to protect her just like she protected me, so I — I took the blame. All of it. I said the knife only had her fingerprints, because she used it to cook. She didn't want me to take the blame — but she knew there was no other way. She promised to plead the case — she's working with Hanji — my attorney."

Still pure, a little less innocent.

He does deserve a second chance, after all.

"Why didn't you plead defense?" The evidence should be there. He could've won that case. He could've —

" _Because I enjoyed it_." His grip tightens around my arm. "I felt _powerful_ .. like a god. I had their lives in my hands — I chose their fate for them. I felt —  _good_. If Mikasa didn't yell at me to stop stabbing the second man, I would've stabbed him twenty more times. I deserve the life sentence, but I want — I want to be with Mikasa and Armin and everyone else and —  _I don't want to be here_ , Levi."

That —

_shouldn't have hurt me_

(as much as it did).

But it's fine. It's all right. He only wants to be with the people he cares about. He only wants to be with the people who care about him. That's human. That's  _normal_.

"I'm a monster," he says, quieter than ever.

I reach up and place my hand over his. "If feeling that way makes you a monster, then being a monster is okay." Because no matter how anyone looks at it, what he did was more human than what I had done.

He killed others to protect those he cared for.

I killed those I cared for to protect myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eren's crime isn't much of a surprise, huh? most of you guessed what it was long before this chapter, so kudos to you haha ~ 
> 
> also, HAPPY HOLIDAYS AND MERRY EARLY CHRISTMAS !! i hope the semi-smut scene was an okay present? you guys deserve it anyways, since you've all been waiting so long for something, i'm sure. i'm going to try to update again before the end of this year, but we'll have to see how that goes. 
> 
> \-- aside from that, thank you all for your lovely comments and kudos and aaaAAHH THANK YOU *SMOOCHES ALL OF YOU* ♥♥


	10. Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #-3: Don't make wrong assumptions.

The sun's rays stir me by tickling my cheek. The blanket's comfort rouses me by hugging my frame. Let me confess, there's nothing better than waking up warm. I've always been cold; no sun can heat me up, no blanket can keep me from freezing — but when I stir this morning, I feel Eren's fingers grazing my cheek. And I feel his arm around me, closing me in this particular embrace. It's strange waking up warm, but it's a nice kind of strange.

"Good morning." His voice sounds a bit raspy, but his words are anything but grating.  _Good morning_ , huh? I suppose it is a good morning. No one has killed anybody yet. The storm's over; the clouds have parted way for the sun, and well, things are just as they are. Except Sunshine shouldn't be in my goddamn bed — I'm about to fall the fuck off and he's just here snuggling up against me like some grateful dog and — wait.

"Aren't you supposed to be making breakfast or something?" I know dogs. When they're fed, they're happy as hell. When they're hungry, they become rabid. Given, some of us have survived days without the first meal, but that's not the point in breakfast. Breakfast sets the time. Roll call will always be at 6:30a.m., but the day doesn't truly begin until breakfast is served. And if Eren's just lying here, smelling like bad sex and waiting for roll call to happen, then the day's not going to start any time soon.

Maybe I should just chain him to this bunk and see how long it takes for the coordinators to notice that their precious little cook is gone.

"I should get to that," he murmurs, pressing his nose into my shoulder and sighing, "but you told me to stay."  _That_  I did, but I didn't expect him to stay until morning. (Not that I'm complaining; it was nice waking up warm, after all.)

"Now I'm telling you to go." I shove his head back, and in turn, he laughs. There it is again. That joyous sound. Che. "Get off me."

His laugh settles into a groan as he draws his arm away and sits up. His muscles (if you can even call that slab of meat muscle) flex as he stretches out, and his tank slides down his torso, covering the bare skin at last. He doesn't move from his stretched position for a while — he probably wants me to check him out, what a conceited piece of ass — and when he does move, he turns to me. "Wanna help me?"

"My mouth's sore."

"What? I — oh. No, not that. I'm good — I'm asking if you wanna help me make breakfast."

Oh.

' _I'm good_ '?

Did he just deny a possible blowjob for  _breakfast_?

Wow.

Fuck Sunshine and his Sunny D.

"Since I kinda woke up late, I need an extra hand in the kitchen." He leans toward me, taunting me with that sweet baby smile of his. And it's weird. It's weird how comfortable he seems around me now — at least, compared to before. It's weird how I'm actually not all that repulsed by his close proximity. But that doesn't mean I want him in my face.  _God, no_. His breath  _stinks_.

Pushing him away, I throw back the covers and get out of bed. My shirt sticks to my chest ( _gross_  — it smells like shit); my underwear clings to the valley in-between my asscheeks ( _grosser_  — how did that even happen); and my mouth tastes like sour milk ( _grossest_  — no one talk to me,  _please_ ). Ignoring all the unpleasantries ( _it's a good morning, it's a good morning, it's a good morning_ ), I step over to the small pile of clothes I have stashed in the corner of the room. "What happened to the wake up call?" I ask as I pick up an old shirt and sniff it. Laundry day is today, but I'm not going to wait twelve hours for clean clothes — at least, not in my present condition of smelling like I just got half-laid.

"You slept through it."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"No, really. You slept through it."

There's no way. The wake up call consists of guards yelling and banging on the bars with their batons. There's  _no way_  I could've snoozed right through that racket. Eren's just a little liar.

"So how much time till roll call?" I sniff a pair of pants, and though it smells like smoke, I shrug it off and add it to the pile in my hand.

"Uh .. maybe ten minutes?" He slides out of bed and heads over to his own pile of clothes to pick out the freshest smelling ones. "D'you think we can make it?"

"If we run, maybe."

He looks at me.

I look at him.

And we both book it towards the showers.

It's at that moment — when my feet hits the ground twice in one second — that I realize I wouldn't mind doing this every morning. By  _this_ , I mean waking up feeling good. There have been days when I want to go back to sleep and sleep forever. There have been days when I want someone to drag me up to the second floor and throw me off. Because — there's not many things worth getting up for. If given the choice, I would stay in bed until Cigarette Day. I couldn't care less for Visitor Day. There's nothing on TV. Games get unnecessarily violent. Really, the only incentives I have for getting up are cigarettes and showers. Other than that, I don't give a flying fuck.

This morning's different.

I get to help Eren out in the kitchen.

But before that, I need to get cleaned and make it to roll call, because if someone takes too long to take a shit and they don't show up for roll call, then breakfast will be delayed until they find that person. And  _believe me_ , you don't want to be that one guy who's late. — So to the showers I go, and to the roll call line I stand. When everyone's dismissed, Eren taps me on the shoulder and gestures me to follow. Without a thought, I do.

In the four years I've been here, I haven't seen the kitchen once — and what a sight it is. The layout's simple; stove here, oven there. What comes as a mild surprise is the amount of people milling around, chopping up vegetables and frying eggs. I've never seen them before.

"They work here?"

Eren puts on an apron and hands one over to me. "Yeah," he says. "Did you think I made everything by myself?"

 _Well_.

He's the only one that stands outside and dumps all the good shit on people's trays, so isn't it right to assume —  _all right_. So maybe that thought was a little farfetched.

"Whatever." I mimic his motion of putting on the apron, and while I tie it back, Eren goes around and greets everyone with a number of friendly grins and a couple of high fives. I don't know if these people are hired workers or prisoners, but I know one thing for certain: their smiles for Eren aren't fake. I know fake when I see it. The world is fake. This prison is fake. People are fake, because faking is lying, and people lie all the time. Sometimes you don't know that they're lying. Sometimes they don't even know that they, themselves, are lying. So in order to see the lies, I see everything through the eyes of a cynic.

That knife that person's holding is a lie. It looks so nice dicing up those green peppers and carrots, but how nice would it look if it were to be slitting throats instead? That pot of lunchtime stew is a lie. It looks so good boiling all those colorful vegetables and cheap meat, but how good would it look if it were to be cooking penises instead? Even that cake sitting in the corner of the kitchen is a lie. It looks so appetizing but  _ha ha_ , fuck that. Prisoners don't get cake. We don't have that luxury. (It's probably made out of styrofoam anyway.)

But those smiles are genuine. I don't know if that's the effect Eren has on people or if I'm just happy as hell because I almost got laid last night — whichever one it is, they're smiling, and when they see me, they smile at me too. I've never been smiled at. Well, I've been smiled at, but the smiles I usually get are the ones that say " _I'll fuck that sweet ass of yours_." These smiles are different. It's like they're all saying —

" _Good morning_." The greeting comes from the man with the knife. "Lemme guess. You're Levi?"

Huh, he knows my name. What an honor.

"Eren here talks about you all the time."

Nevermind that honor. Eren talking about me should be a given (although not as much of a given, since I still look over at him and quirk an eyebrow).

"Don't listen to him, Levi —"

"It's true, though."

" _Erd_ ," Eren says, exasperated. He stands there with his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed, and his cheeks puffed, and if that's not the cutest —

"Get back to work!" the guy at the pot calls over his shoulder. "It's five till — Eren, go ahead and start serving. And Hotshot —  _yes, you_  — make yourself useful and wash these vegetables." I can very well douse him with the hot water he's working with for talking to me like that. Or I can stab him to death with that knife the other guy's holding. But in the end, I just let my fist fly forward and — he meets me half-way. He catches my hand, twists it around, and places a basket of leafy greens on top of it. "We can play later," he promises, his voice hush-hush.

It's so simple to swing my leg forward and bring him down, but it's much simpler to take the basket and go. So that's what I do. Jerking it from his grasp, I brush past him to make my way over to Eren. "Does he always have a stick up his ass?"

Eren snorts. "Not always. Gunther only gets stressed when we're goofing off. Don't worry about it." He gestures me over to the large sink. "Hey, when you're done, come help me outside, all right?" After saying that, he doesn't wait for my answer; he just turns and bustles out of the kitchen, leaving me behind with the smiling strangers.

And thing is, I don't feel their eyes piercing my back. They could've very well peeked in my direction once in a while to make sure I'm not seasoning these vegetables with crack or something, but they don't stare. Even though I'm a prisoner — perhaps the most well-known prisoner here (since Eren took the pleasure in talking about me) — they don't stare. It's offensive in a way that it's not. For once, I'm not something to look at. I'm not a display in a museum, and I'm certainly not a freak in a circus. I'm invisible in a way that I'm not. For once, I'm one of them. I'm someone who's helping out in the kitchen, and I'm someone who has a name — a name that's not infamously known.

" _Levi_ , are you done with those?"

I look up from the vegetables in my hands. "Yeah, almost. Hold on." I don't know what kind of vegetable I'm washing, but I like how their leaves trail along my fingers with the motion of the running water. This is what life feels like.  _Alive, moving, green_. It's a nice feeling, but I don't dwell on it much. Shutting off the faucet, I shake the water off the vegetables and hand them to the man with the knife (Erd, is it?). He thanks me with sincere words and proceeds to chop up the greens.

He makes that weapon of destruction look beautiful in its fluid motion of slicing everything up. The way his hands and fingers work together to move the knife is a work of art. I've never seen anything like it. When I think ' _knife_ ,' I think ' _kill_.' But how he's holding it — how he's using it — it's like he's thinking ' _cook_.' There's no intent to take away life; there's just the desire to make something that  _continues_  life. And though his intentions show through his handiwork, I'm on edge, wondering if he's going to end up cutting off his own finger, because that knife's moving too fast that I can barely comprehend what's going on and — he finishes without spilling a drop of blood.  _And that's talent_.

"Years of practice."

I didn't realize I was staring.

Whoops.

"I know what you're thinking.  _How does he do that_? Well, the answer is ' _years of practice_.'" Erd turns to me and leans back against the counter. "Have you ever used a knife before?"

Of course.

(Just not for cooking purposes.)

"No," I say. It's not a complete lie — I've used blades and pocket knives but never an actual kitchen knife. "I don't know how to cook."

He smiles then. "I'll teach you someday, but for now, Eren probably needs an extra pair of hands." That is my cue to go, but I don't want to go — at least, not yet. I want to stay here where smiles are genuine and words are sincere. But I can't stay in this fantasy world forever, because if I do, I'll start treating everything as real instead of fake. So without word, I push the door open and join Eren.

There are many types of fake. There's the actual fake where the fake is evident, and then there's the perceived fake where the fake is only evident to those who accept it. Prison itself is an actual fake; the prison society is a perceived fake. There really isn't a government. There really isn't a leader. There's just a notion of order, so that everyone knows their place. It's a perceived fake I've learned to accept because, even though I want to be invisible, I don't want to be no one. — And everyone here lining up for food has probably accepted that too.

We're the men ostracized from society. We're the men who willingly caved into desires and sins. We're the men whose motive and mentality are true and real. We're not influenced by anything but ourselves, because there is no outside influence here. Everyone's the same. Everyone's equal.

( _But what is equality_?)

"Give them a little more of that scrambled egg." Eren nods at the oversized spoon in my hand, and in turn, I scoop a hefty amount onto the next tray. How do you like that. "That's a bit too much." He takes the spoon from me, scoops an even amount, and dumps it on Auruo's tray.

"Why does it even matter?" I ask while watching Auruo walk away looking somewhat confused. "It's almost the same amount."

"Too little and we'll have extra, too much and we'll run out."  _Point given_.

We finish serving others in time to serve ourselves. When I sit down to eat my breakfast, I don't know what I was expecting, but I wasn't expecting this amount of salt. What's so surprising, though? Salt has always been in the morning diet.

But still. "You put too much salt in this." I take another bite of the scrambled eggs and Eren follows suit.

"Some of it's kinda .. yesterday's leftovers," he murmurs. "We put salt in so it doesn't taste too bland."

Could've told me that before I ate this shit. Could've told me that a long time ago, actually. We've been eating reused food all this time.  _Great_. And here, I was thinking that they used a lot of salt to cover up the smell of human remains.

"But we only use leftovers for breakfast. Everything made for lunch is fresh. You can drop by the kitchen again if you're not convinced." He finishes the rest of his eggs. "They're actually starting on lunch now, because we have something big planned for dinner tonight."

I look up. "What's the occasion?"

"The warden's birthday."

Wait —  _what_? Erwin's birthday? He didn't tell me about that. Actually, no one told me about that. "How do you know?" No one celebrates birthdays here, because within walls and bars, there is no sense of time. I don't know what day it is. I don't even know what year it is. I just know four new years have passed since I came here. "Is that what the cake's for?"

"Yeah, Gunther mentioned it the other day. The feast's my idea, and Erd suggested we bake a cake so we did." This has got to be some sort of bad joke. "And I kinda figured that, with everything that happened, everyone needed a break. Plus we can honor Jean and that guard —"

" _Don't_." The planned celebration sounded all right until he mentioned Jean and Marco. "Why would you honor someone who betrayed everyone here?" It doesn't make any sense. That's like going to the funeral of someone who tried to kill you. You know, sometimes I think I understand Eren, but then he goes on to prove that I don't understand him at all. It really is like he said —  _you don't know anything about me_. Thing is, I want to know  _everything_  about him.

Eren shakes his head. "It doesn't matter if he betrayed us. He was only doing his job for the greater good, and I want to honor that." — But weren't you angry at him? Didn't you want to kill him? He stole your necklace. He stole your  _trust_. And to honor someone that dishonest?  _Why_? "The guard was trying to stop the fight, so I want to honor him too."  _No_. You're wrong. Marco wasn't trying to stop anything. He wanted revenge. He knew Jean was dead.  _He knew_  —

"You're really too pure for your own good."

Eren shifts under the weight of my gaze. "So it's a bad idea?"

"Bad, no. Stupid, yes. Do you think you can get away with mentioning Jean's name? You saw how we all reacted when we found out that he was the one. Do you really think you can say his name without starting another riot?"

At this point, I don't care if there is another riot. That's the norm around here — it has always been the norm. I don't know why I'm so repulsed by the idea of Eren honoring Jean, though. Since when have I cared about that? Is it because of the betrayal or is it because of something that's completely irrelevant to Jean? I hate the way Eren says his name. It reminds me of the way Eren says my name. Respectful. Kind.  _Forgiving_. I don't deserve that tone, but at the same time, I don't like sharing.

"I guess you're right — but I'll honor them somehow!"

 _Ah_. I get it. He's regretting again. "You don't have to feel bad about what happened. It wasn't your fault." I can see the words ' _but it was_ ' forming on his lips, but before I can hear him, I say, "He knew he was dealing with a bunch of rabid dogs. It's his fault for exposing himself as the rat when he knew we've been starving for the truth." He could've called us to Erwin's office and arrested us there. I suppose the reason why he didn't was because he wanted to show Erwin that he was capable of taking matters into his own hands. And well, death happened to be the result of arrogance.

"You really don't think this is a good idea," Eren presses.

Have I been talking to myself this entire time?

"Do what you want." There's really no point of me talking him out of it. Besides, if the prison does go up in another riot, it's not going to affect me.

"But if you don't think it's a good idea —"

"When did my opinion start to matter?" He never listened to me before, so why start now?

"I just — okay. Okay." I don't know what he's okay-ing about, but he doesn't mention the subject again. The day breezes past like every other day. I cleaned, I smoked, I shat (blame it on the eggs). I had completely forgotten about the dinner plans. It's Eren who reminds me by asking if I want to help out in the kitchen again. Since I have nothing better to do, I go with him. We serve dinner — some sort of vegetable casserole, a piece of chicken, and a slice of cake — and while I'm standing there, I notice the amount of guards loitering about. Usually you have Keith Shadis and three or four others, but tonight, there's Keith Shadis and ten others. Did they all come to celebrate?

" _Annnd_  that's the last one!" Eren throws the scoop down after filling up our two trays. "Come on, let's eat."

So we grab our trays, and we head over to our table and —

Stop.

Because there's Erwin.

Sitting there.

 _Eating cake_.

All right, everything has got to be a joke. The cake, the festivity, Erwin sitting here at my table —  _no way_  this is remotely real. It's gotta be fake. Someone's going to pull the plug and shout "just kidding!" — But that "just kidding" doesn't come. Erwin's seriously sitting here, and when Eren and I approach the table, he looks up and greets me like we're friends or some shit and that shouldn't tick me off, but it does.

Eren sits down on my side of the table, since Erwin's sitting on his side. I don't sit down at all. "What are you doing here?" I ask him, because if this is any  _ha ha_  matter, I want to get my laugh in before everyone else does.

"It's my birthday party, isn't it?" He puts another piece of cake in his mouth and chews it thoroughly. "This is good cake. My compliments to the baker." He's trying to piss me off even more. I just know it. "Sit down, Levi. You're making me uncomfortable."  _Bastard_.

I sit down anyway, but I don't eat. "Just so you know, I didn't know about this until this morning. You didn't tell me today was your birthday."

Erwin stops chewing. "I didn't think you cared."

"I don't." There's a difference between caring and knowing, after all.

"So I heard from Gunther that this was your idea?" Erwin completely ignores me and turns to Eren. "I have to say this is the most exciting birthday I've had in a while."

Shut up, Erwin.

"I thought we all needed a break, so what better than to celebrate your birthday?" Eren shoves a spoonful of casserole into his mouth. "And I thought about toasting to Jean and that one guard, but Levi doesn't think it's a good idea."

Shut up, Eren.

"Levi doesn't think a lot of things are good ideas."

 _Oh, my God_.

"He had a point, though. He said it might cause another riot."

Do they realize I'm literally sitting right here or .. ?

"Hm, that  _is_  a good point. Better safe than sorry, then."

Jesus fuck, I need to say something. "Erwin, you need a shave."  _Shit_. Okay. That was supposed to sound offensive, but it came out more as a suggestion.

And Erwin fucking takes it as one. He touches his chin, runs his fingers along the stubble, before humming in agreement. "When are you free?" Here's the deal with that: I only shaved him once before.  _Once_.

"Piss off." I don't like how playful he sounds. He wasn't this playful yesterday.

"I sorta need a shave too."  _Not you too, Eren_.

I can't do this. I can't deal with them both at the same time. Where are my cigarettes — ? Ah, here they are. God bless. "I need a smoke." Pushing my tray to the side, I stand. Eren tries to stop me with words and looks, but I ignore him. Drawing out a cigarette and placing it in-between my lips, I start making my way out of the dining area, but before I can step outside, I hear Erwin calling out to me. I could've ignored him too, yet I stop and turn back. "What?"

"Can I have your cake if you're not going to eat it?"

Is he fucking serious right now.

My tongue can't even form an adequate reply, so I flip him off and continue on my way.

When I finally get outside, I light my cigarette and inhale. The peace doesn't come at once, and when it does come, it spreads quick. I slouch down against a wall and close my eyes. I let the smoke encase me. I let the nicotine fulfill me. And when the jitters stop, I draw the cigarette out of my mouth and breathe.

I don't know why I reacted that way. I don't know why I was so pissed. I keep telling myself that it's Erwin and Erwin and  _Erwin_  — but maybe it's not, because I wasn't this ticked off yesterday.  _No_. It was seeing Erwin sitting at a prisoner's table that set me off. Eren probably saw it as polite — someone that high up coming to sit with us filth — but I saw otherwise. Perhaps Erwin did have perfectly good intentions. Perhaps he didn't have any intentions at all. But what I saw told another story. He lowered himself to our level and  _mocked_  us. Him in his white button-up, pressed tie, and million dollar watch. Him with his small plate of cake. He didn't have a tray full of shitty food like we did. He didn't have a tray at all. He just had the goddamn cake. Like he had already eaten before. And he had probably eaten something luxurious and pricey and —  _fuck him_. Why did that bastard even show his face. His god-sculpted, angel-blessed fucking face.

Back before Eren came along, I took advantage of that pretty face, and truth be told, I let him take advantage of me too. We had that relationship. Taking advantages of each other. It was a  _lovely_  relationship.

"Levi, are you out here?"

Erwin has this low, inevitably comforting voice. I know it far too well.

"Oh, there you are. I brought you your dinner just in case you wanted to eat."

The voice that greets me isn't as low, but it's equally comforting.

"I'm not hungry." I place the cigarette back in my mouth and suck at the filtered air. "You didn't have to come out here, Eren." (But I'm kinda glad you did.)

"Nah, I just —" He plops down in the space next to me and puts the tray in front of us. "— didn't want you to be alone. That's all."  _But what about Erwin_ , I want to ask. What about entertaining him? Isn't that all we low-lives are good for? To please the higher-ups of this conventional hierarchy?

"Thanks," I say instead. I don't know what I'm saying ' _thanks_ ' for. Thanks, but no thanks? Thanks, but kindly fuck off?  _Thanks for coming here_ , I guess, would be the most logical reason for saying ' _thanks_.'

We don't talk after that. Eren spends his time poking the ground and looking over at me, as if expecting me to do something. I, on the other hand, spend my time smoking this cigarette and staring at the food drying out on the tray. The slice of cake is still there, and for some reason, I want a taste. I grab the spoon and scoop up a piece of the dessert. Then I take a bite.

Sugar has never tasted sweeter.

"Not bad," I say, taking another bite. It tastes a bit weird, since cigarette smoke is still heavy on my tongue, but it's  _not bad_  overall.

"I think it's a little too sweet, but I haven't had sweets in a while, so I can't really judge." Eren leans forward and I give him a spoonful of the cake. "Still good, though."

"Yeah," I agree, leaning back and placing the cigarette back in-between my lips. " _Still good_." I smoke for as long as Eren takes to finish the treat. When he's finally done, he rests against the wall, and I ask, "Do you like it when I smoke?"

Call it an exchange of approval. He asked me for my opinion earlier, so in turn, I'm asking for his opinion now. But whatever his answer is, I'm not going to care about it; I'll keep smoking regardless.

"Not really." He shifts. "I mean, I'm used to it by now, but I still .. don't like it."

"Why is that?"

Shouldn't have asked that. He's probably going to spew some health bullshit —

"Dad used to smoke a lot."

Huh. "So you have daddy issues."

Eren's brow creases. "They said the fire was accidentally triggered by a cigarette butt. I thought that was possible until a couple of weeks ago when I realized that a fire started by a cigarette couldn't spread that fast. — They had enough time to get out of the house, but they didn't."

"They?"

" _My parents_." Eren meets my eyes, then looks away. "This happened after I saved Mikasa. Maybe a week after, but I .. I don't think it was an accident. Mikasa and I were at Armin's when we got a call saying that we should come immediately, and when we got there, Mom was .. Mom was presumed dead. Dad — Dad gave me this necklace —" Eren shows me the key necklace I nearly fought Jean for. "— before he died in the hospital. It's the only memory I have of what I had."

 _Oh_.

"I think Dad gave me this to tell me something, and I think I've figured what that something is. The fire couldn't have been an accident, and even if it were, they would've had enough time to escape, but  _they didn't_. I knew Dad was in debt, and if he dealt with the people who .. dealt with Mikasa then — I think he burnt the house down to destroy evidence, and he made Mom burn with him." His voice is shaking again, but I don't hear anger; I hear despair. " _Dad killed Mom_. I don't — I don't know why he didn't kill Mikasa and me too. I thought maybe he was trying to protect us, but I don't — know. I don't want to think that he would do something like this, but I .. I don't have another explanation."

He needs an answer.

We all need answers.

But it's always questions and questions and questions.

Never answers.

"Sorry for telling you this. I guess I just .. needed to get it out. It's ridiculous, right? The explanation? Dad couldn't have —"

"You're over thinking. Maybe it was an accident, after all."

"But they could've escaped, couldn't they?  _There's no way_  —"

I remove the cigarette from my mouth and offer it to him. "If there's something more to your story, you'll eventually find out, but for now, treat this as a remedy rather than a weapon."

His fingers are hesitant as they reach out, but as they curl around the butt of the cigarette, they grow more confident. "Thanks." He brings it to his lips, hesitates again, then takes a quick inhale. His reaction is immediate; he sputters and coughs and holds the cigarette out to me, but I push his hand back.

"Try again."

And he does while continue to spit and gurgle.

I honestly don't remember reacting this dramatic to my first cigarette.

"You all right?"

He nods and proceeds to inhale for a third time. And third time's the charm; his breathing evens out, and his shoulders relax. He doesn't return my cigarette for the rest of the time we're outside, but he does stop smoking after a while. We talk more, yet the topic of cigarettes and fires and parents doesn't cross our tongues. We talk about the lighthearted subjects — cakes and oceans and stupid people — and we don't stop talking about them until we're back in our cell.

The day's coming to a close, and I'm tired. I crawl under my covers while Eren climbs up to his bunk. It's moments after lights out that I hear Eren shifting above me.

"Levi?" he whispers.

"Yes, I'm awake," I reply.

"Can I sleep with you tonight?"

That —

_shouldn't have made me happy_

(as much as it did).

"Why, are you afraid of the monster under your bed?" When he doesn't answer to my taunt, I add on, "All right, fine." He shifts again. The ladder creaks, and soon enough, I feel his warmth blanketing me.

"Good night, Levi," he murmurs against my shoulder.

"Night."

Sleep comes peacefully that night. I'm not sure why, but I guess it's because I know I'm going to wake up warm again.

— Except, I don't wake up warm. The sun's rays aren't tickling my cheek, and the blanket isn't hugging my frame. Eren isn't lying beside me. I wake up alone.

There's this emptiness in the pit of my stomach, and I suppose that's because I broke Prison Rule #3:  _Don't make wrong assumptions_. I assumed I would wake up warm, but I was wrong.

I woke up cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> confession: i laughed for hours after writing that Sunny D* line  
> *Sunny D is a brand of orange juice
> 
> and also, HAPPY NEW YEAR !!! “ヽ(´▽｀)ノ” i hope 2014 has been treating all of you kindly so far. ~


	11. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #-4: Don't touch what's not yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: dubious consent !!

His name is Erwin Smith: blond hair, blue eyes. A prison warden who's justified by his own will. He would do anything and everything to get what he wants. He would sacrifice, but he wouldn't sacrifice those he pitied.  _Attachment_. That's his poison.

His name is Eren Jaeger: bright eyes, bright smile. A glimmer of sunshine who's justified by his own determination. He would do anything and everything to satisfy his goal. He would fight, but he wouldn't understand who he's fighting for.  _Ignorance_. That's his poison.

His name is Levi (no last name, because last names are family names): foul, dirty. A king without a crown who's justified by his own justice. He would do anything and everything to remain untouchable. He would see, but he wouldn't know  _how_  to see.  _Aversion_. That's his poison.

Aversion.

Disgust.

 _Hatred_.

I wasn't taught hate. I learned it as a spiteful student whose teacher is the past. And it's hard to unlearn something like that because  _hate protects_. It's a man-made cell constructed against pain. It's a self-made wall built against betrayal.

Hate is strong. Once you start hating, you can't stop. It becomes you. It  _controls_  you. It's the puppet master, and you're the sad excuse of a puppet. It feeds on your weaknesses and your wounds and molds them into that invisible wall that protects you so that you can't learn to protect yourself. You're the king without a crown who's sitting on a throne created by hate. You may think you have power, but  _what power_  do you have when you realize that it's hate that's supporting you?  _Hate is strong_. Once you submit to it, you're done.

There will be times when someone penetrates that hate but it's a futile fight; hate will always win.

Unless you start fighting it yourself.

Unless you tackle those weaknesses and close those wounds and reach out to that someone who cared enough to penetrate your self-made wall.

But it's not that easy, because deep down inside, there's fear, and that's what hate ultimately feeds on:  _fear_. And fear —  _true_  fear — can be expressed in many ways.

When I woke up cold, I wanted to kill him. I wanted to take the brightness out of his smile, steal the life out of his eyes, bathe in his blood. I wanted to hate him, I wanted to hate him so fucking much, but when he came to wake me up for roll call, I knew I was fucked. I couldn't hate him. I couldn't hate those green eyes and that stupid smile.

And I don't know why.  _Hate is strong_.

Maybe I'm getting tired of hating.

Maybe Eren's the only exception.

Maybe everything's a joke. Maybe Stubbles knocked me out. Maybe I'm in a state of unconscious consciousness —  _dreams_. Maybe I desired warmth so much that I started dreaming of it. Maybe that's why it was so simple to hate Eren before the incident and harder to hate him after.

But that's bullshit. This is reality. I know it is. I know the difference between reality and perception. I know when I'm screaming and when I'm crying. I know I'm still breathing, thinking,  _living_  —

I know I'm still sane.

Yet I'm questioning my sanity.

Ha.

Funny how things work.

Funny how a lot of things work.

Once upon a time, there was a rule. Prison Rule #4:  _Don't touch what's not yours_. Whether it's an object, a thought, or even a person — don't touch what's not yours. Then  _tell me_ , why are my hands ghosting up the side of his thighs? Why are my fingers trailing along the dip of his pelvic bone? Why are my lips brushing against the innocence of his sun-kissed stomach and the purity of his soul-worked neck?  _Tell me_ , why are his hands gripping my arms? Why are his fingers digging into my flesh? Why are his lips moving to form incoherent words?  _Tell me_ , what is going on. How did I get here. Is this what I've always wanted. Is this too good to be true. Is this a dream.

A few months ago, the thought of caressing another would have never crossed my mind. But here I am, breaking another a prison rule. I'm touching him. He's touching me.

And it's warm.

It's really warm.

We fuck that night.

I tear him apart. Spread his legs. Eat him up. Destroy him slowly from the outside in. My cock becomes his god. Penetrates his barriers. Makes him pray. Forces him to succumb to his own desires.

My hands guide his hips closer so that he can take my entire length into that hot, tight opening. He doesn't resist; he just mewls like a fucking slut wanting more, needing more, craving more. My fingers tighten around his protruding bones so that I can bury my desire and my sanity into that gaping, greedy hole. He doesn't hold back. He grabs his cock, strokes it hard enough for his balls to slap slap slap against his skin, and while he's doing that, I hold his thighs wide apart and take him even deeper and shit shit shit, the springs fucking squeak, and he fucking whines that he's so so so close and —

At one point, he cries, because he has never been penetrated before.

At another point, I refrain from marking him, because I can't ruin all that's perfect — because I can't ruin all that's not mine.

At the final point, we lie there, our chests heaving, our limbs weak. He laughs softly,  _oh so softly_ , then says, "We didn't even use a condom." And he's right. We didn't. We probably should've. (Since when did everything become ' _we_ '? Some time ago, it was just me, myself, and I.  _What happened to that_?)

"I'm clean," I tell him, even though I'm not. Nothing about me is truly clean, because there's always something that makes me dirty. My eyes have seen the worst of the worst. My ears have heard the squelch and the squeal. My nose has smelled decay. My mouth has spoken evil. My neck has been the target. My chest has been marked. My back has been scratched. My shoulders have been bruised. My arms have only embraced those from behind. My hands have been red. My hips have been purple. My dick has been blue. My thighs have parted for the unkind. My legs have ran. My feet have froze. If anything, I'm a dirty kind of clean.

"I know," Eren says.

Knowing is different from understanding.

"Are  _you_  clean?" I ask.

"I would think so." He pauses for a moment, then adds, "That was my first time."

Understanding is different from knowing.

I understand why he does the things he does, but sometimes — " _You're a virgin_?"

"Not anymore." He's probably grinning that shit-eating grin right now.

"You're shitting me."

"No, you're really my first."

God, what a fucking idiot. "Didn't you want your first time to be special or something?" He seems like the type to have vanilla sex with candle lights and slow music — and what we did a few moments ago was not even remotely close to that. I was fucking his ass as hard as I could. "Prison's the worst place to lose your virginity."

" _C'est la vie_."

Was that German or something. "What?"

" _That's life_ ," he explains. "I mean, I never really thought about where I would lose it, but I suppose I wasn't expecting it to be here — with you."  _That makes two of us_. "This makes me gay, doesn't it?"

 _Yeah, gay as hell, actually_. "Dunno," I tell him. "You said you were straight."  _You also said comfort knows no bounds_.

He's quiet for a bit. I don't know what he's thinking, and because it's darker than Satan's asshole, I can't see what expressions he's making. But he shifts, the blankets move, and he murmurs, "I think it's just you."

I don't know what he means by that. He could be saying that I'm the only gay one around here, which isn't necessarily true or false. I've never actually thought about my sexuality, because I've never questioned it. Sex is just sex. Doesn't matter whether it's a woman or a man. — On the flip side, Eren could also be saying that I'm his only exception. It's a compliment, but it's a stupid one. He's only saying that because I'm his first. I wouldn't matter otherwise.

"Don't get attached," I say. (I'm not sure if I'm directing that to him or me.)

"Yeah." He pauses. Hesitates. "Have you ever thought about escaping?" It's a random question, but it doesn't surprise me. Sometimes Auruo would carelessly bring that topic up, and I would go with it.

"— No." Why escape from a place that provides you with food, clothes, and shelter? Why escape from a kingdom that protects you from everything that's out to get you? "What, are you thinking about it?"

His breath hitches. "I don't know." I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't say anything more; he simply turns into my shoulder. I don't know what that means either, but I don't want to find out. I let him rest there in peace, and at some point, he falls asleep, because all I can hear is his soft breathing and all I can feel is the rise and fall of his chest.

What am I doing.

Why is he here.

This is a goddamn prison filled with goddamn criminals. We're not the usual convicts. We're the ones society fears the most, because we're the ones people don't understand. We're the psychopaths, the serial rapists, the cannibals. The worst of the worst, some may say. Why is Eren here? Because people don't understand that he was protecting someone. They don't understand that this is a dog eat dog world. If Eren hadn't done something, he would have lost everything. How can you call someone a monster, when all they've ever done was live?

Hate is strong.

When people don't understand, they fear, and eventually, they hate. After they start hating for one reason, they begin hating for every reason. All of a sudden, you're not a human being, you're not even a criminal.  _You're a monster_. And thing is, the more people that call you a monster, the more you believe them.

Maybe I am fucked in the head.

Maybe I am fucking insane.

Maybe we're all insane.

Just because we tried to live a happy life.

But I guess there's no such thing as happiness for people who aren't people.

Why is he here. He shouldn't be here — in this prison. He's not a monster. He has never been.  _Why is that_? Because he made my heart beat again. Because he made my eyes open once more. Because he is the first one who has made me fucking happy. I don't know how he does it. I don't even know if he knows he's doing it. But when he flashes that stupid fuck of a smile, I curse him because I want to smile back (but I never do). Why is he here. He shouldn't be here — in my bed. He deserves happiness. He deserves a second chance. He deserves everything, and I can't fucking give him everything, because I don't have _anything_.

It's frustrating because, at the same time, I don't want people to take him back. I don't want them to turn him into a shitfaced liar. If there's any corruption going on, I want to be the party responsible. I want to corrupt him into understanding what I understand — but perhaps that's too much. He's the angel; I'm the devil.

The devil in red.

 _Red_.

Speaking of red, I've been seeing a lot of red lately. They come in flickers. Red skies. Red clouds. Red rain. I've seen them all before. Red storms. Red hurricanes. Red destruction. I've never had nightmares much. Red trash. Red dirt. Red hands. But they don't mean anything. Red hands. Red hands. Red hands.

Red blade.

( _Monster_.)

I had a dream this one time. I didn't think much of it, because I could barely recall what it was about. All I remember was latching onto someone's arms and squeezing. I've only seen that dream once, so I don't know whose arms they were.

But I know they're not Eren's. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe not. Whatever it is, I don't think about it.

I let myself drift to sleep, and when I stir again, it's morning.

How many mornings has it been since I started waking up next to someone? Three? Four?  _No_ , it's been longer than that, but who am I to judge? I don't keep track of time. I don't even keep track of how many packs of cigarettes I have. I'm becoming disorganized. Disheveled. And I don't like it. I need my own order back, but I don't know if I'll ever get it back, because when Eren and I go to the showers to clean, the asshat slips on soap and crashes into me, knocking us both down. He's on top of me, and it fucking hurts, but he doesn't move and I don't push him off. Instead, he looks down at me, and his eyes find my mouth. I know what he wants when he lets his lashes flicker. I know what he needs when he leans down to —

My heart beats. Fast. My breathing hitches. Slow.

I shove him.

He stops.

"Get off me." I can barely breathe.

" _Just one time_  —"

(A flicker of red.)

I throw my leg over his frame, and without much effort, I reverse our positions. Now sitting on top of his stomach, I stare at him. He stares back, his eyes wide, his mouth slack. I'm not fazed. "Don't  _ever_  look down on me." Because something happened once in these showers, and I don't want —

"All — All right. Fine. Can you .. can you let go of me?"

There's fear in his eyes, and at that moment, I realize my hands are around his neck. I don't remember putting them there, but they're there somehow. How did they get there. When did they get there. How. When. How. When. How —

 _I almost hurt him_.

"My bad." Pulling back, I stand up. Dizziness hits me, and for a second, I feel myself falling — but I don't fall; I'm standing perfectly straight, and Eren's looking at me.

"Are you okay?"

"— Yeah."

I know that's a lie. He knows that's a lie. But neither of us talk about it. We continue cleaning the showers. Sometimes I feel his eyes on me, but whenever I look over, he would be looking the other way. There's a part of me that wants to say something, but I don't. Apologizing doesn't even cross my mind.

That night, I sleep alone. Or well, I lie awake alone. Sleep doesn't come easy to the restless. And by the sounds of Eren's uneven breathing, he's in a similar state. I wonder what he's thinking about. What he's feeling. Is he regretting again? Is he embarrassed? Why am I even thinking about him? Why do I care? I shouldn't care. I shouldn't, but I —

"I want to see the ocean," I say suddenly. "I want to see the infinite part of the world."

He doesn't say anything, but he does stop breathing. Across the way, a light shines in my face. I pretend to sleep. The light goes away, and a moment later, I hear his voice.

"Nothing's infinite."

I remember this conversation all too well. " _Nothing's definite either_."

Again, he doesn't answer, but I know I'm forgiven, because the next morning, everything goes back to normal. We attend roll call, eat breakfast, do our chores. We smoke a cigarette ( _a_  cigarette, because Eren takes one puff, sputters, and gives it to me). By dinnertime, everything seems well. Then I notice something peculiar: people are looking. Granted, they have always looked, but for some reason, I feel as if they haven't looked in a while. It's a particular kind of look that they give when they see something out of the ordinary. A curious gaze. An expecting stare. Something's about to happen, and someone from this table is involved.

They know something I don't.

Eren doesn't seem to notice. (Maybe I'm just paranoid.) He's sitting across from me, eating the dinner he had prepared himself. (But what am I paranoid about?) When he catches my stare, he asks what's wrong. I tell him nothing's wrong, because nothing's really wrong. It's only the looks — the prying looks — the intrigued, prying looks.

They're expecting something.

When Eren first sat down at my table some time ago, they gave us the exact same looks. They want a fight. They want bloodshed. — But  _why_? Entertainment purposes? Are they bored already?  _No_. We're past that. There's something else. I can feel it.

I get some form of an answer during break the next day.

His name is Auruo Bossard: sickly figure, sparsely minded. A chattermouth who's justified by his own tongue. He would do anything and everything to live the underdog life. He would gossip, but he wouldn't gossip to the gullible.  _Pride_. That's his poison.

Auruo pulls me aside and, in a hush-hush tone, asks me, "Are you selling?" At first, I don't know what the hell he's hissing and whispering about (secrets don't exist; only ignorance exists), but then I realize. Selling, huh? Those were the times. Before the rat, before  _that incident_ , I used to sell things — things that Erwin sold to me. That was awhile ago, wasn't it?

Everything went back to normal, but it went back  _too_  normal.

"I don't have any," I tell him.

Sometimes I forget that I tell Auruo a lot of things. Truths. Lies. Facts. Tales. He sucks every piece of information in like a sponge, and then he wrings himself dry by letting that information go. It's a cycle — an arrogant cycle of getting and giving. There's a lesson to be learned here: knowing everything doesn't make you a _smart person_ ; it only makes you a _smartass_. And here's the fact: smartasses don't think, because they don't think they need to think. They assume they know everything about everything, but truth is, they only know black and white. They don't know gray.

"I told them you might have some." He talks too much.

"Who did you tell?"

The corners of his lips firm. " _A few_."

"Did you tell them my name?"

"It slipped."

 _It slipped_.

To him, his words are innocent. To me, his words are poisonous. I want to punch him. I want to kick him to the ground and make him suffer, but I don't because he's a smartass — he doesn't know what he had done. So without another violent thought, I turn away and I tell him, "Don't let it slip again." And I leave him behind in hopes that he'll actually start thinking, because once he starts thinking, he won't be able to stop. He'll think and think and think until he realizes that he's the reason why I jump at shadows.

 _A little birdie told us that you were selling something we want_  — ?

There are no secrets.

There is only ignorance.

Auruo has always been that " _little birdie_."

I should have known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> casually apologizes for the boring-ness of this chapter otl --- but thank you all for reading! thenextchapwillbebetteripromise :*


	12. Humility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #-5: Don't put your faith in others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut is the friend to which, in writing, becomes the enemy (aka warning for dubcon)

Escaping has always been an option, but no one has ever chosen it. There are two reasons for that: 1) they regret what they've done and they're here for repentance, or 2) they rather live in hell than suffer through judgement. Prison is an endless spiral of void where identities are lost and feelings are empty. That's what true hell is; it's not a place with fiery pits and dancing devils, but a place with mental isolation and emotional darkness. The outside world, on the other hand, is an infinite maze where differences are dismissed and morals are misunderstood. Conformity becomes the key to survival, and if there's no conformity, there's judgement. Ask anyone here, and they'll tell you they prefer the former.

Though we are all isolated from one another, there's a sense of community in prison: we don't judge, because we understand. Our minds are collective, and if there's anything comforting about hell on earth, it's that. It's the knowledge that there's someone out there who understands, who relates. In a fucked up kind of way, it's a sense of belonging without having to conform. Isn't that what everyone wants? To belong, to be accepted?

 _Of course_.

Escaping from here is probably easy. There are three fences that separate the prison from the outside world: the first keeps us within the courtyard; the second surrounds the entire building; and the third sits along the perimeter of the property. Anyone can climb the first two if they want, and anyone can jump the electric third if they try hard enough, but no one has done that yet. It's not because we're smart (some of us are fucking idiots); it's because we don't want to go back to a world where we don't belong. But see, Eren is the exception of that. When he talks about escaping, he also talks about spending his life with Mikasa and Armin. He belongs to the outside world (with them). He doesn't really belong here (with me).

And that's not supposed to hurt.

Because it has always been that way.

He belongs to the people who not only understand and accept him, but also care for his wellbeing. In prison, we don't give a shit about anyone but ourselves, because no one matters more. We're the outcasts who have accepted that selfishness is the key to survival. And nothing can change that; once you succumb to your demons, you chase away your angels.

But maybe it's just me.

When I said I wanted to see the ocean — the infinite part of the world — I meant just that. I want to see the primeval nature, the tasteless world without colors, the measureless distance between natural beauty and chaos. I don't want to see the third variable: the people. I don't want to see their influence as they define what an ocean is. Not everything is black and white. An ocean is not just water. A person is not just human. We are a spectrum of things. Human. Animal. Monster. Alive. Breathing. Dead. To define us as something certain is the stupidest mistake someone can make, because we'll prove you wrong. We'll always prove you wrong.

In that case, who am I?

 _Nothing_.

Who is Eren?

 _Everything_.

It's not as simple to ignore organization, though. Eren is a human. I am an animal. We are both monsters. Eren is alive. I am breathing. We are both dead. When I put it like that, I'm at ease, because nothing's gray; I understand it all — but it's only feigned understanding. In reality, I'm lost.

And I don't like being lost. I don't like being ignorant of the things I shouldn't be ignorant of. But see, knowing all is foreign to me. When I woke up alone this morning, I thought nothing of it — perhaps Eren was out making breakfast. Perhaps it was just that,  _but no_ , it wasn't just that. When Eren later told me that he had met up with his attorney to discuss the faults in his case, I thought everything of it — perhaps a life sentence wasn't a life sentence. I considered the possibility of such, and the most foreign feeling hit me. I began ignoring him after that.

It's been three days.

He hasn't noticed.

But I carry on as usual: I get up, I take a shower, I go to roll call, I eat breakfast, I do my choirs, I use my breaks, I eat lunch, I smoke several cigarettes, I sit around, I eat dinner, I go to bed, I fall asleep. It's a pattern engraved into my every day life, yet sometimes I break it. Sometimes I don't take a shower, sometimes I don't eat, sometimes I don't go to bed.

Sometimes I lie awake in bed, trying to organize my thoughts so I can understand them.

It's been five days.

I've been counting.

He still hasn't noticed.

And I know why: he thinks everything is okay as long as I insult him and call him 'Sunshine.' He doesn't consider the idea that my insults are meant to hurt. He doesn't think much of the meaning behind the nickname I gave him.

Ten days.

Prison Rule #5:  _Don't have faith in others_. Not everyone understands.

Eleven days.

But it's fine.

Twelve days.

He doesn't have to understand, because sometimes ignorance is bliss.

On the thirteenth night, he crawls into my bed. On the fourteenth morning, I wake up before him. The prison is silent with the exception of a few snores and Eren's steady breathing. It's calming enough to soothe me to sleep again, but I don't submit. Instead, I turn on my side so I can watch the steady rise and fall of Eren's chest. ( _I am alive_.  _He is breathing_.  _We are both dead_.) He's at peace, but I can only wonder if he's truly at peace. Does his feelings confuse him? Does his mind disturb him? — Is he anything like me? I doubt it. He is humanity's hope. He has shed light on the beauty of human nature. I am humanity's strength. I have gathered enough power to protect myself from the ugly of the same human nature.

I shift, and he stirs. I shift again, and he wakes. He's a light sleeper.

"G'mornin'," he murmurs. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep."

A yawn escapes him as he digs his nose into my shoulder. "Rough night?"

I shrug. Sleep has never been that easy for me. Back then, it's because the cold kept biting. Now, it's because the hot keeps relieving. Eren peeks up at me. His eyes are wide and daunting as he observes my expression. After some time, he sinks back into my shoulder and closes his eyes. He exhales and doesn't say anything for some time. When I hear his voice again, it's muddled. "Have you thought about escaping?"

"You've already asked me that."

A pause. "But have you thought about it?"

"Sure." There's no point in lying.

"Are you going to do it?"

"No."

He sits up. Looks at me. "Why not?" There are some things that shouldn't be asked. That question is one of them.  _Why not_? There are too many reasons. "You can probably do it if you try."

It's at that moment I realize that, when he talks of  _escape_ , he talks of  _me_. Have  _you_  ever thought about it? Are  _you_  going to do it?  _You_  can probably do it if  _you_  try. It's all me. The "we" is gone. And I think I know why, but for the first time, I don't want to be right. For the first time, I don't want to understand the subtle message. For the first time, I want to be ignorant of the things I should be ignorant of. I want him to prove me wrong. He has done it all before, so why not now? — Ha. There's that 'why not' question.

"Are you okay?" he asks with that concerned tone I've always hated.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

I need pleasure to qualify pain, so without a thought, I push his chest down flat against the bed. A noise escapes him, but I don't let that stop me. I roll over and straddle his waist. There's a struggle of conflicting powers — his surprise against my indifference — but after a while, that struggle disappears. Nonetheless, he still tenses as I lean down.

"Levi, what are you —"

"Fuck me," I breathe into his ear. "I want you to fuck me."  _And I want it to hurt_.

I expect him to go through with my demands, to tear off my clothes and shove his cock inside of me. But he doesn't do that. Instead he stares, his mouth agap, bewildered. For some reasons, that ticks me off.

"Did you hear what I said?" I pull away slightly so I can lean back and rub my ass against his crotch. "I want your dick."

"I heard you the first time. I — was caught off guard. — Shouldn't we, um, wait for night so no one can see us?"

"Who cares?" I roll my hips again, and in turn, he groans. Satisfied, I continue, "I'm horny as hell, and I want your _boy_  inside of me, so how about it?" The first is a lie; the second isn't. I don't want sex; I just want to be fucked until I can't think. And since Eren's right here, he's the perfect candidate.

Unless he objects. If he does, I'll go to Erwin (disgusting but better than nothing).

"I don't think — are you .. are you sure you want to do this  _now_?" He grabs my hips to still me. "We can wait for later. It doesn't have to be now."

 _Fuck you_. This isn't about you at all. This is about me and my needs. "Yeah, I want this  _now_." I brush his hands away so that I can slide down his slim frame. As he shifts into a more comfortable position, I press my nose into his crotch and inhale his scent.  _Mm_. Good. I don't know what secret soap he uses (or if he even uses any for that matter), but he smells so fucking good. The muskiness, the dirt, and the sweat just drive me insane. I want more of it. Tonguing my lower lip, I scramble to pull his dick out of its confinement, and while I wet its head with my mouth, my hand drifts down to massage my own. There aren't many things I like, but I like sucking him off. I like the feeling of his heavy cock on my tongue, and I like the strong smell that overwhelms me the closer I get to his pubes. I like it so fucking much that I get dizzy from all the blood that rushes south.

He runs his fingers through my hair, and I look up. His head is tilted back. He's biting his lip. I pull my mouth away with a wet pop, and while I stroke him to fullness, I say, " _Let me hear you_." He bucks into my hand then but makes no noise. "Let me hear you," I repeat. My voice raises a bit, yet I pay it no mind as I take back my hands to yank my pants and underwear off. The cold nips at my bare skin, but it's the heat of inner frustration that makes me shiver. I want his cock piercing through me. I want his spunk mixing in with my blood. But I know better than to go unprepared.

"Watch me," I tell him. As he lifts his head to acknowledge me, I scoot towards the foot of the bed. From there, I reach under the mattress to pull out a small bottle of oil (courtesy of Erwin from a year ago). While I pour a fair amount onto my fingers, I lean back against the post and spread my legs wide. My tongue peeks from in-between my lips, tasting the bittersweet air. Eren looks on, his gaze holding more lust than contempt. And so I proceed. I grab my cock and spread the oil along the protruding veins, then, with a stifled moan, I begin putting on a show for him. I stroke myself slow, moderate, fast, and the more sensitive I become to my touch, the tighter my toes curl. I bite my lip and fuck myself for his viewing pleasure, and when he finally utters something coherent, he says, " _Finger yourself_."

So I do. With my eyes locked on his, I let my hand gravitate lower. I like the control I have over him. I like how his body tenses when I circle my asshole with the tip of my middle finger. I like how his gaze devours the erotic sight before him to the point where he can't look away. I like how he gasps along with me when I press past the tight ring of muscle and continue pressing in until my entire finger is deep inside me.

"You like that, huh?"

The squelch produced by my shallow thrusts are nothing compared to him moaning "fuck yeah."

I pretend my finger is his cock, but it's not enough. I want to be filled. I want to feel the veins on his dick pressing against my inner walls as he sinks into me slowly.  _Shit_ , I want him in me. I want him to become one with me. I want him to be mine. A finger isn't enough. Licking my lips, I slouch against the bed post and spread my thighs even more. I push in another finger, and  _goddamn_ , it feels good being stretched again.

"See what you're doing to me?" I say, breath hitching. "See how you made me into a fucking whore who's greedy for your thick cock?" I know he likes it when I talk like that, because the moment those dirty words leave my mouth, he grabs his shaft and begins stroking it. I don't hesitate to meet his pace. While he thrusts into his hand, I thrust onto my fingers. Once more, I pretend it's his cock, and for some time, it works, because I'm watching the movement of his hand and how it flies along his length. It's only when he starts panting about wanting to come do I stop pretending. "Don't you dare come," I hiss. I want to be the one who makes him blow. I don't want to be replaced by his hand.

Pulling my fingers out, I grab the small bottle of oil and crawl over on top of him. His hand stills immediately. "Should we, um .. use a condom or —"

"Shut up," I tell him while I coat his dick with a gracious amount of oil. "I want you to fuck me raw." I want him to be one of the few who has ever had the pleasure of doing that.

He doesn't argue. "Okay." And with that, I bat away his hand and grab the base of his shaft. I guide my stretched hole to its tip, and as skin brushes against skin, I shake.

"Have you done this before?" he asks as I push the head of his cock into me. "You're .. really tight."

 _Thank you, you observant asshat_.

"Do you always ruin the mood?" Giving off a soft 'tch', I work my way down his throbbing length, and when I bottom out, he inhales sharply. I don't give him time to catch his breath, though, because this is all about me and my needs. I shift a little to adjust to the fullness, and once I'm comfortable, I lift myself up and slam back down. He loses it.

"Levi,  _shit_  — hold on, I —"

I do it again.

"L- _Levi_  —"

That's right. Say my name. Fucking scream it.

"You like that?" I let myself drop onto his dick again, and in turn, I hear the satisfying slap when our skins meet. "You like that, Sunshine? You like me fucking myself on your pretty cock?"

"Y-yeah .. I like that." I like that too.  _God_ , I like that too.

I rock forward and let his dick slip out of me. He leans over, expecting something innocent, but for another time, I deny him. I clasp my hand over his mouth and push him back down. His eyebrows furrow, but he doesn't try again. With our faces only breaths apart, I reach behind me and take his wet length into my hand. I guide it in-between my cheeks and toward my greedy hole, but I don't let it slip in. I slap his dick against my hole a few times. I tease him that way. I like teasing, because it gives me a sense of power, but my own power comes to betray me when I can't hold back anymore.

His cock fills me again. I feel stuffed, and it's exhilarating. If I could sit here all day on his fucking cock, I would, but I can't, because he's shallowly thrusting upward and silently begging me to move. So I move, but apparently, I don't move fast enough. He latches onto my hips, and without warning, shoves his entire length up my ass. It knocks my breath out, yet he doesn't let me breathe. His pace is fast; he thrusts in and out without mercy, and  _fuck_ , it feels nice. The frequent slaps of our skins become background music as our breathing becomes erratic. And  _shit_ , when I look down and see his cock disappearing and reappearing, I almost come. It's fucking hot.

I screw my eyes shut.

I let myself go, and I let him take control.

He fucks me like that. Fast and raw. Just like I wanted. ( _I am a human_.  _He is an animal_.  _We are both monsters_.)

I can't think much, but when the thought that instigated this act consumes me, I can only think much of it.

"Oh God, Eren."

 _He is my light_.

"You're so good."

 _He is my savior_.

"Fuck, I'm close."

 _I don't want him to leave me_.

There's a spark that curls at the pit of my stomach. There's an explosion that shoots down my spine and into my fingertips, numbing them. For once, I don't see black or red: I see white. It's a white that pulsates in time with my heartbeat, and when it begins to fade, I feel myself slipping in and out of conscious. With a blink, I see Eren reaching out to me; with another blink, I see nothing. I'm in state of sedation — all I see is darkness. I feel like I'm falling, but I know the sensation of falling is all in my head. I can't see shit, so how do I know if I'm truly falling?

A gentle shake disturbs the peace. I think nothing of it until I hear a voice calling my name. It's such a familiar voice that's not rough, not smooth, not loud, not soft.

" _Levi_."

Amidst the endless spiral of void, I see a small light.

" _Levi, wake up_."

With each passing second, it grows larger and larger and brighter and brighter. I am falling, after all.

" _It's time for roll call, hey_."

My breath catches in my throat as I pass through the light and hit rock bottom. I jolt awake, and suddenly, I can see again. Eren's leaning over me. I blink, and I can see better. Eren's eyes are an aggressive green, and his lips are a passive pink.

"You okay?" he asks. His fingers dance along my neck, as if checking for a pulse or perhaps a marking.

"I .." Words seem foreign on my tongue. ".. can't feel my body."

He doesn't laugh, but he offers a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, I'll — I'll go slower next time."  _Next time_. I really like the sound of that. "But we need to get to roll call first. Here, grab my shoulder." I do so accordingly, and he heaves me off the bed and onto my feet. My knees bend from pressure, but nonetheless, he keeps me up. We hobble to the line-up. Everyone stares, yet no one looks confused. I have a feeling that they all know what had happened. But that's fine. If they know, then they can assume that Eren's my bitch.

After roll call comes breakfast, but instead of going to the dining area, Eren leads me back to our cell where he lays me down and tells me that he'll be back with some food. He leaves my side then, but as promised, he comes back balancing two trays. He gives one to me and apologizes for taking so long. I don't respond. We eat in silence. The food tastes disgusting — not because of the seasoning — but because I haven't brushed my teeth yet. Not to mention, my mouth's been somewhere vaguely unsanitary (though unnecessarily pleasant).

Other than that, the fifteenth day comes and goes.

He doesn't mention our morning together, so I don't either.

On the dawn of the seventeenth day, I realize people are staring again. I don't know why they're staring (or if they had even stopped staring, for that matter), but I soon find out: today is Cigarette Day. Breakfast passes in a blur; chores drag on. No one seems to be in a pissy mood, and that's understandable. I can't remember the last time we had a Cigarette Day, so these fuckers are probably shitting their pants to get their hands on a few sticks.

The line is a long one, but I don't mind. Eren talks the entire time, and unlike before, I actually tune into his ramblings. He talks about the quality of the prison food and how he's personally requesting for better meat and nicer vegetables. At one point, he suggests getting rid of one Cigarette Day to fund for such, and I can't help but snort at that. Even if that does go through, we prisoners won't like it. We need our smokes. Plus, we don't like breaking traditions.

By time we get our cigarettes and head outside, everyone's waiting. I open my pack and offer a cigarette to Eren (there's no point in us opening both of ours, since we end up sharing anyways). He takes one, and as I draw one out for myself, I see a flicker of a small flame and a swirl of transparent smoke coming from Eren's direction. My hand stills.

He's challenging me.

—  _No_.

There's no way.

Eren's just too fucking stupid to acknowledge tradition.

Or at least, that's what I think until something else happens: out of the corner of my eyes, I see movement, and when I lift my head to confirm what's happening, my throne crumbles — and breaks.

All the prisoners around me are lighting their cigarettes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for the late update but hhhh i hope it was worth the wait?? idk orz ; v; anyways, happy belated valentine's! and, as always, thank you all so much for reading / commenting / giving kudos / etc; i dearly appreciate it ♥♥♥


	13. Diligence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #-6: Don't trust anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: description of soft gore??? (does 'soft gore' even exist omg)

My fist has always been louder than my tongue.  _I do_ ,  _I don't say_ , because actions have more power. People don't win from talking shit; they win by beating shit in. Violence doesn't resolve everything, but I can tell you that it gets attention. No one gives a damn if you scream, but if you  _fight_  — if you bring your fists in and swing your feet out — they'll come in flocks. It's sickening. The goody-two-shoes preach no violence, but when there  _is_  violence, they're sitting on the front row with a bag of popcorn. Humans just want to see other humans fall. And who am I to deny them of such luxury?

It's hilarious.

He has always been that porcelain object I can't touch, but goddammit, when my fist meets his jaw, I feel a surge of euphoria — as if something within me has broken free. It's a release, a relief. It's strength in its purest form. When my fist meets his jaw, he's caught by surprise. His cigarette falls from his lips as he stumbles back and cradles his cheek. His eyes are blown wide — not from lust this time, but from shock. Confusion. Amazement. He asks me what that was for, quietly,  _gently_ , but my answer is anything but gentle. I can't stop myself, I can't even think.  _I do_ ,  _I don't say_ , because no one's going to hear my voice anyway.

It's hilarious, really.

I'm fighting a fight already lost. When everyone lit their cigarettes in response to Eren, they were saluting his authority. There's no fight here, so why am I lashing out? Why do I want to make him bleed?  _Because I want to break him_. I want to break him and mess him up and piece him back together in a disorderly way. I want to prove to him, to everyone, and to myself that I cannot be controlled — that I am the puppet master, and he's the puppet. It's not the other way around. It's never been the other way around. I want to erase all doubt and reclaim my rightful position, because that's the only thing I have.

That's the only thing I own.

But maybe it's something else. Maybe I'm just using this as an excuse to beat him up and bruise his pretty face. Maybe I just want to see his blood, to hear his scream, to feel his anger. Maybe I just want to fuck him up.

I never said I was a saint.

These hands are not hands; they're fists. They fight. That's their sole purpose. To fight, to win,  _to conquer_. To appeal, to destroy,  _to control_. When my fist met his jaw, everything felt right again.

He stares at me still, bewildered. I take a step toward him; he takes a step back. I almost laugh. He has no power. He's a weakling, yet he dares to challenge me. What an idiot. I should have kicked his ass a long time ago. But instead of dwelling on what I  _should've done_ , I do it.

I grab a fistful of his hair and yank him forward. He squeaks, begs me to stop, but I don't. I deliver a swift kick to his stomach, and while he bends over, I bring my knee up and break that pretty face. He bleeds. I continue. Placing the heel of my foot on his shoulder, I push him to the ground (where he belongs). My hands are on fire. They're yelling at me to do it,  _do it_ , and so I do it. I dig my fingers into his eyes and feel the warmth of their fluid as it leaks onto my palms.  _See no evil_. While he's screaming in agony, I let go and take a step back, then with all the strength thrown into my foot, I kick the side of his head down.  _Hear no evil_. He cowers before me, and his body shakes with renown fear. I'm in control. I stomp on his chest, and he gasps. His lips part, and he begs, God,  _he begs_ , but I have no mercy. I've lost it long ago. I stamp on his face, shatter that beauty even further, then dig my heel into his mouth.  _Speak no evil_.

There's red.

On my hands.

On my foot.

Down his throat.

Everywhere.

I hoist him up to eye level. He can't see me, but I can see him. I can see him all too well. I reach forward, shove my fingers into his mouth and grab his tongue. He squeals, yet I yank. I want to pull his tongue out. I want it gone, so that he can't serenade me with his words, so that he can't seduce me with his promises. I want to pull his tongue out, I want it gone, I want —

— but I don't do.

I don't do anything, actually. I just stand there, letting my imagination run wild and violent. I don't swing out, I don't spill blood, I don't hurt him. I'm not stupid; like I said, it's a fight already lost. Everyone has already saluted Eren, and I can't do anything about that. Of course, I could act on my desires — I could gouge his eyes out, kick him down, and make him suffer — but what good would come out of that? I'm a foolish man, but I'm no fool.

The tables have turned.

(Perhaps for the better.)

As I light my cigarette, I catch Eren eyeing me. When I meet his gaze, his brow crinkles. "You all right?" he asks. I don't know if it's his nature to ask me that every time or if I'm just that easy to read — whichever one it is, he asks, and I answer.

"I'm fine."

"You looked angry."

I've always been good at concealing emotions, so I don't know how he does it. Did I slip up? Was there something in my eyes that conflicted with my nonchalant expression? I don't have a goddamn mirror. I don't know, and as long as it's Eren, I don't care. He's seen me at my most vulnerable state this morning. He's seen me at my worst. There's really nothing else I can hide from him. He can see it all if he wants to. — But that doesn't mean I'm willing to show him everything. If I let him in, if I let him see what I truly see, then he'll leave. For sure, he'll leave.

"Did I?"

He stares at me for a moment, then parts his lips to let a wisp of smoke escape through his teeth. "A bit, yeah."

"Something just crossed my mind, that's all." I don't like how he's leading the conversation. I don't like how he's asking the questions and making the assumptions. (But at the same time, I like that. I like that a lot, because for once, I'm not the one reaching out.)

"It bothers you." This time, it isn't a question; it's a statement. A strong statement. He's got me. "Was it — was it something I did? Said?" Hesitance. Anxiety. I can hear the waver and the worry in his voice loud and clear. And it makes me think.  _Was it something I did_? The way he asked that made it sound as if he  _knew_  what he did. If that's the case, what are his intentions? What are his motives? Just when I thought I've figured him out, he defies me and again, I'm thrown into a cycle of knowing and not knowing.

"No." I watch a few prisoners put out their cigarettes and walk back inside. They seem to have it easy, but I know their lives are anything but. Some of them have friends and families to go back to. Others still have to prove their innocence. Then there's Eren, who has to do both. And then there's me, who's free. My family has never existed. If I had friends, surely they're dead. As for innocence — the only innocence I have is ignorance. I watch a few more prisoners go back inside, and I wonder how many of them are free too, but sad reality hits me. They're all chatting with each other. Some of them are laughing (a sound that's becoming more and more frequent around these corridors). They've made friends with one another. And then there's me, who's independent. Granted, I talk to Eren but we're not friends. I don't know what exactly defines friendship, but I know friends don't think about — " _Killing you_."

"What?"

I look over at him. "I thought about killing you." Guilt doesn't cross me but regret does. When I said that, his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw locked. He now knows too much about me. I should've kept that in. I should've left him in the dark.

But then he does something else: he puts out his cigarette, pauses for a brief moment and says, "I'm surprised you haven't killed me yet." He peers up and a small smile hooks from the corners of his lips. "What's stopping you?"

That's a good question.

 _What's stopping me_?

Morals? Bullshit. Justice? Like I give a fuck.

No, what's stopping me is the same thing as what's encouraging me. It's the thing that builds walls and blocks emotions. It's the thing that pulls people in and pushes them back out. — It's the idea that I want him here as long as he'll stay.

But he doesn't need to know that about me. He's already seen and heard enough. So instead, I say, "You're too stupid to kill." More prisoners go in. Time passes. My cigarette is nothing but a stub. He talks about something but I don't tune in. I keep thinking about breaking his neck, breaking his spine, breaking his heart — breaking him,  _breaking him_ , and after a while, I find myself speaking up. "Is there something on  _your_  mind?" Because he already knows what's on mine, so it's only fair if I know what's on his.

He stops rambling and shifts onto his heels. His body sways for a moment, and I think about breaking his legs too. Then he says, "I'm going back." Except he doesn't really say; rather, he whispers.

I raise an eyebrow. "You don't have to tell me that. Just go back inside." Was that really necessary? He has always done things without telling me, so —

"No, I'm going back home." He wets his cracked lips and meets my eyes. "I'm leaving."

 _Leaving_?

Ha ha ha .. that's hilarious.

That's really fucking hilarious.

"Don't joke about something like that." Tearing my gaze away, I drop my cigarette and grind it out with my heel. Leaving? Ha.  _As if_. He has a life sentence. There's no way he's getting out so soon. There's just no way —

"I'm not joking."

I rub the cigarette deeper into the dirt. "You're joking," I say.

"Why would I joke about that?" In my peripheral, I see him stepping towards me. "Levi, I'm getting out of here." When I hear my name, I look up, and I see it — his creased brow, his shallow frown — but what bothers me are his eyes. His excited, bright eyes. His tone may reflect discontentment, yet his eyes tell the real story.  _He's happy_.

He's truly happy.

"Are you okay?" He sounds concerned, but I know he couldn't care less.

Prison Rule #6:  _Don't trust anyone_ , because everyone lies. And those who act like they care are the best liars.

" _Ecstatic_ ," I tell him. I can taste the bitterness on my tongue. "Congratulations, Jaeger. I hope you get to see the ocean." And with that, I start back inside. I want to burn the image of him and his stupid smile and his goddamn bright eyes. I want him gone from memory. I want him gone as if he never existed.

"Wait, Levi, I —"

Don't say my name.

Don't tell me to wait.

Because I've waited long enough. I've waited years for someone to relate to. I've waited  _my entire life_  for someone to see me as a person and not some petty object that can be used and thrown away. I've waited and I've waited, and at one point, I thought I'd found that someone — but now that someone's asking me to  _wait_ , and I don't want to wait anymore. I'm done with waiting. I'm done with hoping. I'm done with caring.

Which is hilarious, because when did I start hoping? When did I start caring? When did I let my walls down? I don't know. I don't want to know. And in all honestly, I shouldn't know.

Pushing away the thoughts and closing my ears to his calls, I step back inside. Everything looks dirty again. The floors haven't been washed. The walls haven't been wiped. Even the atmosphere is unclean. The air tastes like sweat and spit. The prisoners who breathe it look as if they haven't showered in ten years. This place is a swamp. It's no wonder Eren's happy to get out.

 _Eren_.

I can only keep him out of my head for a minute.

 _Eren_.

I hate that name, and I hate everything associated with it.

And hate is strong. That's what I keep telling myself.  _Hate is strong_. It's strong enough to keep me away from that dumbfuck, but at the same time, it's strong enough to keep him in my thoughts.

He didn't have to tell me. He could've just left, but see,  _he didn't_. He wanted to see my reaction. He wanted to see me suffer. He's just like every other human, isn't he? Humans just want to see other humans fall. What makes him any different? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Then — why the hell are my hands shaking? Why is there a storm stirring in the pit of my stomach and in the center of my chest? What is this feeling of confusion, of disappointment, of  _anger_?

I should have killed him.

Just like I should have killed Stubbles and those two Lankys.

I should have killed them. I should have killed him. But I didn't. Something stopped me, and that something's biting again. I can't escape it. I know it's there, and I know it's feeding on my innermost miseries, but I can't run from it. No matter how hard I try, no matter what I do — it's there. It has always been there. And it's not leaving. It's never going to leave.

The one thing I want gone is the one thing that stays.

The one person I want here is the one person who goes.

I confess, I've always been a sinner. Pride brought me here. Envy taught me hate. Gluttony gave me illusions. Lust kept me alive. Greed pushed me forward. Sloth held me back. And wrath —  _wrath_  showed me reality. It showed me true emotions: what people fight for, what people defend. It showed me the animalistic nature of humanity.

I should have killed him.

But I won't, because I have no right to take away what belongs to him. He deserves happiness. He deserves to get out of here, to go back home, to see the ocean. He deserves it all. It won't be fair for me to steal that from him. (Then again, when has life ever been fair?)

 _Eren_.

(Stop thinking about him.)

 _Eren Jaeger_.

(Fucking stop.)

 _Sunshine_.

(Stop that, goddammit.)

He needs to go. He needs to go now. Who knows what these hands can do? Who knows what —

I skip dinner and smoke three cigarettes instead. It's been a couple of hours since then, and I think I'm fine. The hurricane in my stomach had settled down some time ago. I think I'm fine. (Breathe.) I think I'm all right. (Breathe.) Yeah, I'm all right. I'll get over it eventually. I've gotten over everything else, so this shouldn't be any different.

Night falls, and the curfew draws near. I stay out of my cell as long as I can, because even though I'm fine, I don't want to see him. But when the time comes and everyone's chased off to their respective beds, I follow suit. And when I get there, I try not to look — I try to keep my gaze down, but I can't. I look up, and I see an empty bunk above mine.

 _He's gone_.

There's something heavy in my throat, but when I try to swallow, it doesn't go. I stand there, listening to the keys jingle as the prison guard locks me in. I want to ask him where Eren has gone, but I already know the answer.

He's gone home.

And I didn't even say goodbye.

Not that I wanted to.

Not that I cared to.

(But it would've been nice to say goodbye for once.)

I sleep alone that night, and I wake up freezing. I've never been this cold before. But it's all right. I'll get over it eventually. That's what I keep telling myself as I pull myself out of bed. That's what I keep telling myself as I take a shower and head over to roll call. That's what I keep telling myself as —

"Eren Jaeger."

Must have misheard.

"Present!"

Must be hallucinating.

And yet, I look for him in the sea of prisoners. He usually stands next to me, but today, he's standing at the end of the line up. I squint. There's no way. He was gone. Why is he here? Why is he back?

He catches my gaze and gives me a small smile.

Fuck him.

When we're finally dismissed for breakfast, I try to avoid him, but he comes to me. In all his bright glory, he comes to me, and he tells me "Good morning." I can't say it's a good morning, but I can't say it's a bad one either, because he's still here. For some reason,  _he's still here_.

"I thought you left," I say.

"I leave Friday."

"When's that?" I'm surprised at how steady my voice is.

"Two days from now." He sucks in a breath. "I have something to give you — after breakfast."

I hold my gaze. "I'm not hungry."

"You skipped dinner."

"So I did."

He hesitates for a moment, then grabs my hand (my fist) and leads me back to our cell. In the privacy granted by bars, he sits down on my bunk and gestures me to follow. I sit. He doesn't say anything for a while, so I do: "Where were you last night?"

"— Another cell. I thought you were angry, so I didn't want to .. intrude." He must have seen the flicker of doubt in my expression, because he quickly goes on to say, "I was thinking — actually, I've been thinking about this ever since I .. knew." He clears his throat and shifts a bit. "I want to see you again, so I thought — shit, I mean, I —"

"Breathe, Eren."

He exhales. "I'll come back for you."

I frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"We'll see the ocean together."  _That's a lie_. "We'll see the infinite part of the world."  _That's another lie_. "Here, I —" He reaches into his shirt and pulls out the key he's wearing around his neck. For a few seconds, he squeezes it tight. It looks like he's contemplating something, but after a while, he takes the chain off and puts it around  _my_  neck. "— I promise I'll come back for you, but until then, promise me you'll keep this safe." His grip tightens around the key. "This is the only thing I have."

I look at the key.

And then I look into his eyes.

He's not lying this time.

"All right," I tell him. "I'll keep it safe."

"Do you promise?"

I tuck the pendant into my shirt. "Yeah."

" _Promise_?" he repeats, this time with notable urgency.

Again, I look at him.

His bright eyes.

 _His pink lips_.

I look at him.

My sunshine.

 _My savior_.

And I say,

"I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before i forget, i'd like to say that -- if i tell you anything about this fic, chances are, that thing might change in the near future b/c JD has taken 23894789 wild turns since chapter 1 and whoo i'm just going with the flow here
> 
> aside from that, thank you all for reading !! (o: <333 (also would any of you be interested in a possible playlist for JD?? i kinda dabbled on some songs that sorta fit this fic and i thought it would be nice to share or something idk orz ///)


	14. Charity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #-7: Don't underestimate someone's ability to leave you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a looot happens in this chap

Prison Rule #7:  _Don't underestimate someone's ability to leave you_. Even through sworn word, people come and go. It's just like he said: c'est la vie. _That's life_. Nothing's infinite; a life sentence is less than a lifetime. Nothing's definite either; a promise is only a locked memory. And oftentimes, that lock is destroyed and the vow diminishes — yet the feeling lingers within the promised. Confusion. Agony. Betrayal. It's a cycle that stupid people put themselves through in hopes that they'll find that one person that can change its course. More often than not, they'll never find that person. And they'll never stop looking.

A couple of months ago, before he came, I wasn't one of those people. I shut myself out. I let everything go. I stopped living, because I couldn't find a purpose. Then he came in, and he had the mind to challenge me without even knowing my name. Now, my name sounds sweetest on his tongue — and vice versa. There's a certain way I say "Eren" that makes it comforting. Perhaps it's the rolling  _R_ , or perhaps it's the drawn out  _N_. Whichever it is, it sounds nice. But see, not knowing names is part of letting everything go. If I don't know their name, then they're not important. But I know his name, and I know it all too well. When I wake, I see the bunk above me, and I think  _Eren_. When I eat anything, I see the carefully prepared food, and I think  _Eren_. When I fall asleep, I see nothing, but I think of everything.

When he goes, if he goes, what will I see? My eyes are still adjusting to the light, but they have already closed to the reality. If I'm lucky, everything will go back to the time when I was king, when I was cold; if not, everything will remained changed, for better, for worse. When he goes, if he goes, what will I think about? I don't want to dwell on his absence. I don't even want to hold memories of him ever existing, because if I hold those memories, I'll complete that cycle of confusion, agony, and betrayal once more. I don't want to be grouped with those stupid people. I want to stop searching for that person; I want to stop  _trying_. And the only way I can do that is if I let everything go.

If I let _him_ go.

But he doesn't want to leave quietly.

He has today and tomorrow, and he wants to do things that will make people remember his name. I want him to go, to slip away and shy back into society, _but that's not he wants_. He wants to throw a party, to round-up everyone and say his final word — and he does that. As the sun settles below the horizon, he brings out the food, and everyone comes in flocks. Even Erwin comes. I don't know why that bastard's here — probably for the food, but the food's not even good. It's bland. Everything tastes bland. Even the wine they serve (how the hell did Eren even convince them to have wine?) is bland. Not to mention, it looks like shit. The chicken is overcooked. The potatoes are burnt. Nothing looks good.

Yet people compliment him, Erwin especially. "This is really good."  _Shut the fuck up_. "Who taught you how to cook?" There's something about his tone that pisses me off. He's talking to Eren as if he _knows_ him, and I call bullshit on that, because even though Erwin's the warden, he doesn't know everything. He doesn't know Eren's full story. He doesn't know what Eren has been through.  _But I do_. I know everything from his background to how his cock feels inside my ass. Erwin's nothing against me.

"My mom makes me cook sometimes," Eren tells him. Funny how easily he mentions his mom. "She used to cook a lot, so I figured I could, uh .. honor her by cooking for others, so to speak."

"You're carrying her legacy well, then." Erwin pops another piece of chicken into his mouth and chews. I scoff. "What?" He turns to me. "Don't be rude, Levi. The least you can do is try a bit of everything."

I glance down at my tray. Just a couple of minutes ago, Eren spent some time looking for the biggest chicken breast for me. The thought of that made me sick to the point where nothing's appetizing. But I was reasonable; I took a bite of the potatoes and declared it tasteless.

"I've tried enough."

Eren swallows abruptly. "Is it bad? I can make you something else, if you want."

"Don't worry about it," Erwin says, shooting me a look. "He'll eat when he's hungry." I can't believe I used to suck his dick. I can't believe I used to do the things I did.

The past is suffocating. _This place_ is suffocating. "I need a smoke." I need to get out, but when I stand, Eren tugs at my sleeve. I look over, and he tells me to  _stay_. It's not an order; it's a plead, but it has no effect. I jerk my arm away and leave.

He doesn't chase me down. Doesn't come out to bring me food. Doesn't do anything. The cigarette in between my fingers becomes my one and only company, and I find that calming. Sure, I would like to talk to him, but at the same time, I wouldn't like that. Every time he speaks, his voice fills my ears and captivates my mind. I can't think of anything then, but now, my thoughts are clear.

Yet the silence still screams.

If you listen closely, you'll hear the screams of a thousand men who have left this world in quiet agony. These are the men who feel unjustified — who feel robbed of everything they've had. These are my men, and one day, I'll join them in their screaming, but see, no one's going to hear us, because no one's going to mourn. I don't care, though. When I go, I'll just go.

Sometime later, I head back inside. There are still a number of people scattered around the cafeteria, but Erwin and Eren are both gone. At that, some internal monster begins banging on my rib cage. I can feel its pain, but I let it suffer. I let it drown in its own fits of distress as I make my way back to my cell. And when I get there, the monster stops.

Eren's sitting on my bed. His hands are folded, and his shoulders are arched forward. As I approach him, he looks up. "Levi, I —" He catches the wind, and he stares. I stare back, and I remember that, in two days, I won't be able to stare at him again. The small monster within me lurches and drops into the pit of my stomach. From there, it wails. It gets louder and louder with each passing second, and it deafens me when Eren reaches out and pulls me in.

"You're upset," he says, sitting me down beside him.

"I'm not upset."

"Then you're lying."

It hurts to look at him.

"You don't know what you're talking about." I lie down. "Go away. I want to sleep."

He doesn't go easily either. "I want to talk. We only have tomorrow."

"That's plenty of time." In reality, it's not. A life sentence is endless time, but a day is nothing in comparison. "Stop giving me that look."

I turn into my pillow and despite the lights, I try to sleep. But of course, as always, Eren doesn't allow me to. I feel the space beside me sink, and the next thing I know, I feel warmth pressing against my back. He breathes, his chest heaves. I try to block it all out but it's hard to, especially when his hand starts ghosting up along my thigh. A part of me wants to slap his hand away, but another part — _the stronger part_ — tells me to stay. I'm not sure if it's worth it.

He intertwines our fingers and brings our joined hands up to his lips. The kiss is soft along my knuckles, yet his touches are softer. His hand trails along my side and dips underneath my shirt. I don't feel cold; if anything, I'm burning up. Regardless, he continues. He brushes my bare skin with the pads of his fingertips, and when I shudder from his kindness, he arches against me. I feel his erection pressing into the curve of my ass, and though I have full intentions of ignoring it, I end up turning around to face him.

"Don't forget my promise," he whispers. It's funny, because that's all I want to do.

It's funnier, because I say, "I can't."

Because of part of me can't let go. A part of me wants this — wants _him_. And I can't deny that anymore. When he shifts to loom over me, my skin tingles with discomfort, but this time, I don't push him away. His stare pierces me. My blood runs hot. It's as if I'm standing in fire and refusing to use the extinguisher. He bends down and places his lips on my jaw line. From there, he trails south, past my neck, toward my collar-bone. His grip tightens around my waist — a simple indication of wanting a response, yet I don't give one. I lie there, burning in confusion over why I'm not afraid.

When his mouth lingers lower, he looks up and asks, "Do you trust me?"

And I answer, "You're not giving me much of a choice, but — I do."

It's like an eternal vow. I do. _Till death do us part_. — Then, what is our death? Is it misfortune, or is it justice? Or maybe it's only a one-sided death — a death of a king. Maybe it's not any of that. Maybe we've never lived.

That doesn't matter, because now, I feel alive. When he helps me out of my shirt, fire eats at my chest and nips at my fingers. I long to touch him, to own him, but instead, he claims  _me_. He presses chaste kisses along my bare shoulder and up my neck. And at a moment, I cup his cheeks and guide him closer. A breath separates our mouths, and then —

He puts a finger against my lips. "Not now." He denies me the one time I don't deny him.

But it's all right.

I'm used to it.

His hand glides down my side and fondles with my trousers. At some point, they come off, and I lie there exposed to the dirty air. He pecks my hipbone, then nudges my thighs apart. I let my legs fall open — not because I have to, but because I want to.  _I want this_. I want his mouth on me. I want his teeth scraping gently across my skin, marking me scarlessly. And he gives everything to me.

The silence continues to scream, and the monster continues to wail. After countless moments of preparation, he pushes into me, then he pulls out. The motion is repetitive, yet with each thrust, the sensation is renewed. He pants; his disheveled hair clings to his forehead. I probably look no better. My mouth's slack, my body's numb. I let him take me in further and further, deeper and deeper. Sex has never felt this sweet.

We finish with unspoken words heavy on our tongues. I want to say something in the midst of euphoria, but I'm met with silence. After that period of high, I'm glad I didn't say anything, because I would've regretted it.

Minutes pass.

Time draws closer to its end.

He doesn't move, and he doesn't sleep either. Neither of us sleeps.

The lights go off.

We stay awake.

During some time in the night, I turn to him. "How long have you known?"

He's quiet for a bit, and then he says, "A while. My attorney has been working on my case ever since I got thrown in here. A couple of weeks ago, she said she appealed for another trial or something."

"I didn't know that was possible."

"Didn't think so either but — I was wrongly convicted, and she said she had strong enough proof to get me through."

My brow creases. "But you killed them."

"They killed themselves." He pauses. "I was protecting Mikasa."

That's not the story he told before. It's some of it, but it's not _all_. There are other factors: Eren went there with a knife. He trespassed and he stabbed a man more than enough times. On the flip side, he was justified. They kidnapped his sister, they demanded ransom and threatened to kill her.  _They tortured her_. And all of this can be proved so simply. As for the men, they're dead. They can't testify, so the evidence points against them. But still, _he murdered them_. Shouldn't that mean anything?

Apparently not. A killer's not a killer if they're justified.

Then what does that make him? What does that make _me_?

Monstrous.

Yet perfectly human.

".. Hey, Levi? Can I ask a favor?"

Should've ignored him. Should've slept.

"What is it?"

"Can you make me look presentable?"

Whether or not I agreed that night, I find myself with Auruo's razor the next day. It didn't take much to convince him to hand it over — only a few sticks, which Eren happily provided from his recent packet. He then made me swear that I wouldn't use it for shaving "the squirt's pubes," and I told him it wouldn't make a difference, since Eren's hair was as dirty as his pubes. Auruo bristled, but then I told him I was joking (even though I really wasn't), and he calmed down.

And that's the story of how I managed to get my hands on a razor again.

During the leisure time after lunch, Eren and I move back to our cell. He sits cross-legged on the floor, and I kneel behind him. Just a couple of months ago, we were in the same position, but things have changed since then. I'm not just cutting his hair; I'm making him presentable to the outside society. I can very well fuck up his haircut, but I don't want to leave a bad lasting impression — at least, not on him. So taking a lock of his hair in between my fingers, I begin thinning it out. He doesn't complain.

Minutes of our time continue ticking by, and we're wasting it with silence. There are many things I want to say and tell him, but I don't know what those things are. In truth, I probably just want to hear his voice.

"Is there anything you want to ask me?"

He tenses. "I don't exactly .." He hesitates. "You've never really talked about your family."

Of course, it's this topic. I shouldn't have expected anything else.

"I don't have one."

"What happened to them?"

I still don't know if he's deaf or daft, but I mean what I said. I don't have a family. I've never had one. Family isn't defined by blood; it's defined by relationship. Sure, I had people who brought me into this world and raised me, but to consider them family is to consider their betrayal affectionate.

"They're dining in hell."

".. You killed them."

My hand stops. Maybe he's not as deaf and daft as I'm making him out to be. "I did," I finally say. It's been awhile since I've confessed my crimes out loud, but the incoherent, mixed feelings always come back.

"Tell me."

When I said I had many things to tell him, I never considered telling him about my past. No one really knows what happened, and I want it to stay that way, but when he presses, I couldn't stop my tongue from forming words. The next thing I know, I'm telling him everything. I tell him about my childhood — how my father left early, how my mother turned to alcohol, how they both abandoned me for their own selfish interests. I tell him about growing up — how a couple fostered me, how they neglected me, how they only took me in for the government's money. I tell him about getting into drugs, running away, and selling myself to make ends meet. "They fucked up what I could have had," I tell him last.

You never realize how much a person impacts you until you've already been impacted. You never realize how much a person means to you until they disappear, and when they leave you, they leave itches in your memory that you want healed, yet you can't stop scratching. These scars will never fade, no matter how much you want them gone.

"So I fucked up everything they had."

Thinking back, it was an irrational move. I could've done better. I could've done worse. But at that time, when I squeezed the light out of their eyes, I felt at peace. I felt as if everything was right again, even though everything wasn't. To this day, nothing's still right.

Eren doesn't say anything for a while. Though his silence is his reply, I don't regret telling him. The weight on my shoulders have been lifted, and for once, I feel as if I can truly breathe.

"How many?" he asks moments later.

"All three." The only reason that number isn't four is because I couldn't locate my father. Besides, even if I did find him, I wouldn't recognize him. His face is nonexistent next to the blurred image of my mother.

I finish off his haircut and run my fingers through the slightly choppy texture. For someone who only knows a blade as a weapon, my work isn't all that bad. If anything, it looks better than the previous haircut I gave him. I sit back, and he touches his locks. After a while, he says, "Thank you." I've never received a more sincere word.

He begins to move away; he leans forward and brushes his pants free from stray hair strands. As he gets up, he feels the bristles along his jaw, and with that, he turns to me. "Can you help me shave too?" He doesn't have to ask. The answer will always be yes.

We end up in the showers where I lather his jaw with shampoo (not the best substitute for shaving cream, but good enough). Once preparation's done, I bring the blade close to his skin, and I tell him not to move. Even though I've done this many times, a blade is still a blade. I could easily cut deep into his flesh, and in the worst case, I could maybe even cut off parts of his nose. But he says "okay," and he sits perfectly still with his hands clasped and his eyes closed. I can tell he's nervous, but he makes no noise to indicate his discomfort. In a roundabout way, I realize he's trusting me.

It's a fatal kind of trust. He knows I was thinking about killing him earlier this week. He knows I have a liable weapon in my hand. It'll be so easy to slit his throat and take away any happiness he deserves. But I let him live.

That's probably the biggest mistake I've ever made.

Dinner passes, and the lights go out at their scheduled time. With everyone snoring around us, he says, "It's our last night," and I say, "Yeah, it is." His fingers don't dance; his lips don't trail. He lies with his chest pressed against my back and his arm resting across my stomach. We don't move.

In the midst of our steady breathing, I think. I think about all he has done for me and all I have done for him. I think about the times when our lives have clashed, therefore letting us understand each other. I think about everything, and I try to let go.

But it's really not that simple.

I can't forget his eyes. They have always reflected the truth and nothing but the truth. I can't forget his mouth. It has never failed to speak the words I didn't know I wanted to hear. I can't forget him and his entirety. And I hate that. Everyone else was easy to forget — what makes him any different? _Nothing_. He's just a piece of shit who came in and made his rounds. He's nothing special. Someone will come and replace him. In five years, I won't even remember his name.

That's probably the biggest lie I've ever thought of.

He's here and he's there. Even if he's physically gone, his presence still lingers in the darkest corners of my mind. Usually I dismiss those corners, but when he's standing there, shining his light on every mishap and mistake, I can't help but notice them. I've kept everything repressed, but now my memory runs free.  _What more can he do_?

"Is there anything else you want to tell me?" he asks.

"No."

"There's .. something I want to tell you. But do you — will you believe me?"

 _Of course_. "Depends."

His heat draws away, and I'm left wondering why there's distance between us. "I only killed two men," he says.

"And?" He's full of contradictions. One day he's saying those men killed themselves, and now he's saying that he killed them. Granted, the outcome's the same — the other party's dead — but he's still spewing different stories. Why is that? They had it coming. That's what he's trying to say.  _They had it coming_. In that case, the people I killed had it coming too. I'm not a murderer; I'm just a monster.

"You don't get it. I only killed  _two_." When I don't make any noise of recognition, he continues to say, "You killed six."

I frown. _Six_? Where did the other three come from? What other trio — wait.

Is he implying —

 _Stubbles and the two Lankys_.

In that moment, that's when everything starts to make sense.

I've seen the red skies, the red clouds, the red rain. I've dreamed of the red storms, the red hurricanes, the red destruction. I've experienced the red trash, the red dirt, the red hands, the red hands,  _the red hands_  —

Blood.

It's all _blood_.

And that one dream — the one where I'm latching onto someone's arms and squeezing them tight —  _they're not arms_.

Fucking hell, they're not arms.

 _They're necks_.

I see it clearly now. I remember. So that's what all the red means. I remember.

 _But no_. There's no way. "You're lying." I would've remembered something like that. It doesn't make sense, it doesn't make sense at all. He's lying. He's got to be lying. There's no way he could've known about — he's just blaming it on me. That's what he's doing. He's putting the blame on me. He wants to see me in misery — as if him leaving isn't enough, ha!  _No_. He's lying. He's putting images into my head. I know he is.

"I'm not. I didn't want to tell you —"

"You're lying," I hiss.

Liar, liar. They're all liars. Everyone I've looked up to, everyone I've trusted — _liars_. All of them. I should have known. I should have known he's not any different. I don't know why the fuck I would think otherwise. I was blinded by him. That's it. It's him. He knows how to get inside people's heads and mess with them. He knows how to fuck people up. I might even say he's worse than those I've killed. Yes, he's worse, because unlike them, he convinced me to keep him alive until this point. And now, he's running away. He's leaving me behind in this mess, and he's leaving me with broken promises and shattered hope. I should have known. Humans just want to see other humans fall.

" _You're lying_."

He has the audacity to shush me. "Please keep your voice down. I just — I'm sorry, Levi, I shouldn't have —"

I sit up, and I ask, "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to calm down first." His shoulder is touching mine. "Listen —"

"Explain how that's possible. You had the weapon." I'm going to expose him as the liar he really is, and after that, I'll be in peace, because there's no way I killed them when I didn't even have the razor. It doesn't make sense. It doesn't —

"I used to follow you around all the time, remember?"  _I remember all too well_. "Well, I .. one day I found you covered in blood, and you looked at me — I thought you knew — I thought you were about to kill me, but you just dropped it — your razor — and you went to wash your hands. The nurse was on the ground — I thought you killed him too, but I didn't .. you looked at me again and you came toward me and you just kinda .. passed me without saying anything." His throat makes a weird noise. "I picked up your razor."

That's the biggest bullshit of a story I've ever heard. "That doesn't make sense. The nurse would've reported me after he woke up."

".. Maybe he did report you."

I want to ask what that means, but I already know the answer. If the nurse had reported to anyone, he would've reported to the warden — that means Erwin has known all along. In addition to that, if anyone had asked the nurse who did it, he would've told them. Maybe that's how Jean knew.

But, no. I didn't do it. I know I didn't.

"Then humor me, why did you put the blame on yourself?"

"I just .. wanted to protect you."

I've heard that before. _He only wanted to protect someone_. That seems courageous, but it's anything but innocent. "I'm not your sister," I tell him. "I don't need protection."

"So you're admitting to it?"

The red comes in flickers. First, gently, then all at once. I see the red dripping from my hands. I see the red splattering against a familiar shade of orange.

No.

No, no,  _no_. He's putting images in my head again. He's trying to make me think this and that way. He's not protecting me. He's a liar. That's all he is. He's a liar. He's always been a liar. He probably hasn't even killed a man. He's probably here to get me to admit to my crimes so that he can bring me in, and if that's what he's here for, then he's won. I've admitted everything there is to admit. I've let him in enough. Now, he's going to tell everyone, and everyone will know, and then —

 _No_.

I won't let that happen.

I won't let him leave.

I won't let him.

I won't,

I won't, 

 _I won't_  —

"What are you —"

Everything happens fast. One second, I'm sitting in peace; the next, I'm on top of him. My hands are around his neck, and I'm squeezing. I'm squeezing hard. I throttle. I channel all the confusion and agony into my fingers, and I —

(She looks up at me with my eyes.)

— feel the bones in my hand breaking, or perhaps it's his neck breaking. I don't care who's in more pain. As long as he's dead, that's all I care about. I won't let him.  _I won't_  —

(Her lips fall open, and she tries to scream.)

—  _let him in again_. I won't let him fuck me up. He grabs my wrists and rocks to throw me off, but I hold on. I cling to that neck that attaches his body to his pretty face. His pretty face that smiled through its lies. The man from back then is right. Pretty faces always lie, and they're so good at it because everyone's gullible. But not anymore. This ends now. This ends at —

(She digs her nails into my wrists, and with each passing second, her grip becomes looser and looser, until I ask)

— " _Why_?" Why did you do this to me? Why  _me_  of all people? Why not someone else? Why is it always me who has to go through this over and over and over again? Why —

( _did you leave me behind_?)

— did you choose me?

He doesn't answer with words, but rather, with fists. Something hard meets my jaw, and I lose my grip. There's struggle beneath me, but I tame that struggle. My hands seek out his neck once more. He fights back. He kicks, and he thrashes, and at one point, we fall off the bed. I hit the floor. My head spins, yet I continue clinging to him. I roll on top. Hands are everywhere, and shouting commences.

(In the moonlight, I see her lips move, and she mouths)

" _Levi_!" He grabs my shoulders and tries to push me back, but I don't budge. "Stop! You're hurting me!"  _Doesn't he get it_? That's exactly what I want. I want to hurt him in ways he has hurt me. Every punch is a tear. Every kick is a cry. I want him to bleed. I want to see his red. " _Help_!" And no amount of help is going to keep me from seeing it.

Light shines on us, and the place goes up in flames.

"Please stop —"

Even if I want to stop, I wouldn't be able to. My hands are back on his neck, and this time, I don't let go. I feel his lungs constricting. I feel his airway squeezing close until he can't breathe anymore, until he can't move, until —

(She's lying there still. She stares up at me, but she stares with dead eyes. I leave them open as I draw back and look at her in all her familiarity. Though age has taken its toll, I still see the resemblance — her eyes, for one, then her long nose and her curved lips. In a funny way, it kinda looks like she's smiling at me. She has never smiled at me before. When I realize this, I don't go. Instead, I lie down beside her. The clock ticks by. The time draws near.)

— I'm pulled away from him. The light blinds me, but I pay it no mind. I fight against the arms that hold me back, and in the midst of this fight, I see his face. His bruised and battered face.  _I did that_. I did that to him. But it's not enough. I don't want him to leave bleeding. I don't want him to leave. I want him _dead_. Right here in this place I call home. I want his last breath. I want his last word. But more than that, I want answers.

Why did you do this?

" _Why me_?" My voice resonances as I lunge toward him.

But before I can reach him, I'm yanked back. A certain darkness consumes me. I swim in it desperately — _desperately_  — trying to find a light. There's one in the distance, this I can feel, but I can't see it.  _I can't see it_. And with each passing second, I feel it slipping slowly — _slowly_  — until it succumbs to the darkness.

(On the second night, I wrap my arms around her. I have never embraced my mother's warmth before, and now that I have, she's cold.)

When I wake up, I'm in a closed off room.

There's no window.

There's no sky.

There's no sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first, i want to apologize for throwing everything in your face like that orz ;; but second, i want to personally thank everyone who has commented / kudo'd / read this fic. you guys are amazing, and i just -- *smooches on all ur cheeks* YOU'RE TOO GOOD TO ME ; A;
> 
> also, this is not the last chapter -- i wouldn't leave you guys hanging like that hahaha ahahaha haaa ~~ hmm what else. i almost referenced frozen in this. i was trying so hard not to use "let it go" i swear.
> 
> and oh! [**HERE'S THE PLAYLIST**](http://8tracks.com/umok/junkyard-dogs-1)! it's kinda three days grace / sixx a.m. heavy whoops xoxo


	15. Aversion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Rule #-0: Don't get attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** !!! WARNING: SELF-DESTRUCTIVE TENDENCIES !!! **
> 
> also this chap is dedicated to the lovely **boys-in-leather-straps** whose idea actually spurred that [april fools joke](http://herlovely.tumblr.com/post/81476238632/april-fools) :^)
> 
> update: this chapter has been edited!

The walls here are empty canvases. It takes an artist to create something beautiful; it takes a madman to destroy it. Most solitary confinement rooms have walls stricken with tally marks to count the days, but my walls reflect no change in time. That's because time's nonexistent here; everything's at a standstill. I don't age, I don't grow — but I think. I think a fucking lot, and I think about everything. If I had done this, then this would've happened. If I hadn't done that, then that wouldn't have happened. When thinking starts becoming a chore, I paint my imagination on something else: the walls.

My nails aren't strong enough to carve letters into the blank slate, but the blood from my torn finger is anything but weak. (It wasn't intentional — while I was scratching the stone, one of my nails got caught in the jagged ridges, and well, with the right amount of force, I somehow managed to rip half of it off,  _God bless_.) I draw a few suns here and there in hopes that they'll shed some light in this closed off room. It works, and it doesn't work. At first, their smiles are big and bright, but after some time, they become minuscule and menacing. I turn my back to them, yet I can still feel their suffocating warmth seeping through my veins.

The walls snicker at my misfortune. I've never liked the walls. They outnumber me and oftentimes they taunt me, but see, _they're no different_ ; we're all stuck in this hell hole.

When I'm fed up with their snarky remarks, I start scarring them with a key.  _His_  key. They stop jeering after that, but the suns continue to smile their bloody smiles. I end up scratching them out too. It's kinda funny. I drew the suns to represent  _him_ , but then I used his key to destroy those very suns. It's like I made him destroy himself.

I also use his key to carve out my name. And every day (or maybe every week, every month, every year), I would continue engraving my four letters deeper and deeper into the wall. Some may call the act insane, but little do they know, it's the only thing that's keeping me sane.

What's in a name? Not something sweet, never something sweet. What's in a name?  _Power_. Not the strong sense of power, but the power of mentality, of knowing yourself and where you belong in this world. What's in a name?  _Will_. Not the inherited sort of will, but the will of motivation, of knowing your capabilities and what you can do to make your world less fucked up. What's in a name? Your past, your present, your future. Without such title, you don't exist.

Ask me to describe myself, and I will tell you four words:

 _My name is Levi_.

There are no history books written about me, but if I tell you my name, you will know my story. You will know my childhood: how my father took away my last name, how my mother forgot my first. You will know my adolescence: how my foster parents gave me a fake one, how my clients called me otherwise. You will know my adulthood: how someone made it sound alive — and how that same lying son of a bitch stole its life.

My name is Levi.

L-E-V-I.

It gives me immense pleasure when I deepen the carvings with his key, because with each stroke, I wear the key down. If he's going to destroy my name, then my name will destroy his most prized possession. Ultimately, I will win. My name may be dead to him, but here within these prison walls, it's alive.

But the more I think of it, the more I realize the true value of this key his father had given him. It's the key to his past. Important, yes, but also nostalgic. He didn't give me his treasure to seal a promise; he gave it to me to get rid of it. He wanted to throw away his past burdens. And he knew —  _he knew_  that I had no future, that I had every past — he knew this, and he tossed the key my way. He promised he would come back.  _That's a lie_. Why would anyone want to come back to their past? I should have known.

Prison Rule #0:  _Don't get attached_ , because attachment is never mutual.

He's just like every other human being. Unfaithful,  _untruthful_. I know an uncertain man when I see one, but he came in — he came in and  _blinded me_  with his stupid sunlight, and all I could see was hope. All I could see was the bright future, the better life. He's the worst — seducing me with words, encouraging me with favors — he's the worst of the worst. He created wings for me, but he didn't teach me how to fly.

But maybe it's not him.

Maybe it's me.

Over infinite time, I grow tired of writing and rewriting my name, so I start mixing up the letters. And what I get makes me sit back and stare. I stare and I stare, and I think and I think until I realize that  _evil_ 's in my name. That evil's  _within_  me. So maybe it's me. Maybe it has always been me.

My name is Levi.

E-V-I-L.

Upon this discovery, the walls shake with laughter, and my body trembles with screams.  _Evil_. I've never thought of it that way. Evil. I'm  _evil_. I draw people in and make their lives miserable. That's why everyone pulls away. That's why everyone  _leaves_. And like the devil, I cling to them — I cling in hopes that I can drag them to hell with me, but they never follow me down. Who knew being bad could be so lonely?

My tremors get worse.

I need a smoke.

Fortunately, the prison guard checks up on me often, and when he does for the billionth time this hour, I ask him for a cigarette. He hesitates for a bit, but after a few daunting words from my _vile_ tongue, he slides a stick and a lighter through the small compartment used for delivering dinner. I thank him for his generosity, and he makes the mistake of leaving me behind with both items.

I smoke the cigarette, and I look at the lighter in my hand. There is something flammable on my body. And the desire is there. I can light myself on fire and watch myself  _burn_. I can light myself on fire and hear myself  _cry_. Such temptation is becoming the end of what is considered insanity, and I am not one to deny that state of mind.

My name is Evil.

I am the devil, and tonight,  _I burn in hell_.

It's a funny thing though. I don't remember hell being this white. When I think _hell_ , I think _fire_ , but there's no fire — there's just pain. Excruciating pain of being burnt. Of being torn open. Of being eaten alive. And the pain doesn't stop; each time I shift, it comes back stronger than ever. When it leaves, it leaves with tingling scars.

"Don't move."

It's a woman's voice, and for some reason, a part of me knows who it belongs to, yet another part of me denies that thought. She shouldn't be here, but at the same time, she  _should_. Hell is her home. I made sure of it. But to meet her again in this damned place — it's cruel.

"The more you move, the worse it'll get."

There's something different about her voice. It's too strong. Too assertive. Though I don't remember much, I remember her sounding soft and oftentimes choked. She never knew what to say. She never said much either. I remember feeling ignored, feeling invisible, feeling useless, _disposed_. I also remember feeling frustrated, feeling angry, feeling betrayed, destroyed, _repressed_ —

" _Hey_." Her touch burns my shoulder, and I hear myself gasp. "Calm down."

I blink and I feel — my chest tear open. I feel a knife running down my skin, leaving trails of deep gashes behind. I feel a strong hand reaching into me, ripping my skin apart, reaching in and in and grabbing that beating  _thing_  and grabbing it and yanking it and yanking it out and I feel —  _disappointment_.

Because the woman hovering over me isn't my mother. She looks nothing like my mother.

"Are you all right?"

I see her name tag.

 _Annie_.

Definitely not my mother, and definitely not anyone I know.

"Where am I?" My voice sounds raspy as if I haven't spoken in a while.

"The hospital."

— Wait.

"How did I get here?" I don't remember coming to a hospital. I don't even know why I would be at a hospital. Last I remember, I was in solitary confinement. In a prison. I shouldn't be here. Where are the snickering walls? Where are the jeering suns? Where's the shitty food, the uncomfortable mattress, the —

"I'll get the doctor."

" _Wait_." I try reaching out to her, but the moment I move, pain greets me as an old friend. Cringing and hissing with discomfort, I ease into the position I was in before (I'm not stupid; I know better than to hurt myself more). The doctor comes and asks me how I feel. I tell him it hurts. He asks me if I need water. I tell him I don't. He turns to leave, but before he can, I ask him the same question I asked the woman: " _How did I get here_?"

He looks at me, and he smiles, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Just consider yourself lucky," he says. That's all anyone here says. It gets frustrating, because there are questions and questions and questions but  _never answers_ , and soon enough, I learn that asking's futile. No one's going tell me what I want to hear, so I have to find out myself. That doesn't prove so easy until Erwin visits.

"They want to put you in a psychiatric ward." That's the first thing he tells me. "How do you feel about that?"

I feel many things, but at this moment, I feel nothing. "A psychiatric ward?" The words roll off my tongue in a familiar manner. I've heard it from my attorney once. "That's for sick people. I'm not sick."

"Levi." He leans closer, and I can smell that musk and dirt and — I realize I haven't smelled him in a long time. He smells nice. As always. "Levi,  _you set yourself on fire_." There it is. The answer I've been wanting to hear. "If it wasn't for Mike, you wouldn't be here. You should thank him for saving your life. You should .. just —  _what the hell were you thinking_?" There it is. The broken composure I've been dying to see. "All I've done, I've done for you, and  _this_  is how you return the favor."

This time, I don't ask, I only say: "I wanted to go home."

"I'm going to sign you over to the ward."

"— Didn't you see what I wrote on the wall? Levi. If you rearrange 'Levi', you get 'Evil.'" It makes sense. It makes a hell lot of sense, but from the look Erwin gives me, it doesn't make enough sense. It never makes enough sense.

He gets up, and without word, he leaves. — I think I took him for granted. I think I took a lot of people for granted. He willingly came to me. He willingly reached out to me. And what did I do? I pushed him away. I pushed everyone away, because I'm not used to it. I'm not used to people getting close. I'm not used to people wanting to _stay_. And I feared — I feared if I didn't push them away first, then it'll hurt when they choose to leave. But who did I push away, and who chose to leave? I don't know, and I don't want to know. — But here's the thing, _he comes back_. Erwin comes back, and he grabs my hand. And it hurts, and I tell him it hurts, but he doesn't let go.

Rather, he brings a black marker to the back of my hand and writes LEVI. I don't know what he's trying to achieve with this, but I let him do his bidding. He turns my hand over and writes LIVE. "This is what your name means." He shows me my palm. Live. "You're meant to  _live_." When he lets go of my hand, I look at the two words written on it. Levi. Live. I kinda like the sound of that. Levi. Live. I'm meant to live. Whether it's clinging to someone or alone,  _I'm meant to live_.

Huh.

Maybe Erwin's not that bad of a person after all.

Maybe he really does want to help me, but —

" _Why_?" I look up at him, and this time, I don't ask out of anger. I ask out of curiosity. "Why are you doing this?"

He answers without missing a beat. "Because the worst still deserves the best. You're not defined by your actions. My father died for that cause, and as his son, I'm obligated to prove him right. I became a prison warden because I believe in justice for all. Doesn't matter if you've committed a crime or not; to me, everyone's human, and they should be treated as such." A small smile reaches his lips, and unlike the doctor, the smile also touches the corners of his eyes. "I know your story, Levi, and I thought that, since you didn't have family to turn to, you would at least have me."

He's right. He does know my story. He's the only one who knows my story. Him and my attorney, but my attorney's not here. But he's here. He's  _been_  here.

"So do you give everyone drugs?" I refuse to believe he's a saint.

"Everyone noticed you when you started selling, didn't they?"

He has a point. When I started selling, everyone knew my name. I wasn't invisible.

"Do you fuck every prisoner then?"

"Only the ones I want to protect."

It takes me a moment, but then I understand. Our relationship wasn't as secretive as I thought. Everyone knew. Or at least, the prisoners knew. That's probably why I was as untouchable as I was. It's not because of me. It's because of Erwin. I was the prison warden's bitch. I was his _property_.

Protection, he says.

"Is that why you didn't turn me in for those murders?"

He's quiet for a bit. I should have shut up. I vowed not to ask questions, but here I am, playing twenty questions with this fucker. (And I'm determined to win. I know he has more motives.)

"Like I said, everyone's human, and they should be treated as such, but not everyone believes what I believe. If I turned you in, they would have given you an inhumane punishment, or worse, the death penalty. I wouldn't be able to help you then." That's what he says, but what I hear is ' _I don't want you to die alone_.' But see, I've already died alone. I've died alone a long time ago. First, when my parents left me; second, when my fosters abandoned me; third, when the only man I had potential to care for broke his promise. I've died again and again, yet I'm still breathing.

"All right, you win." Though it hurts to, I reach over and grab his hand. He doesn't pull away, and at this moment, I see the fine line of trust he has in me.  _He's insane_ , but I don't let that get to me. I pluck the marker from his loose grasp, and uncapping it, I write ERWIN on his hand and WINER on his palm. "That's kinda funny, isn't it?" I let go of his hand.

He chuckles. "It is, except  _winner_ 's spelled with two N's."

".. Fuck you."

He's not really a winner, though. There's more to his story, I know there is, but I don't mention it. I don't mention the many things that show his other motives. I don't mention how cold he looked when he told the armed men to fire at the rowdy prisoners. I don't mention how uncaring he was when he turned his back on the wounded. I don't mention his messed up mentality. I don't mention any of it, because I don't want to push him away.

"One more thing."

"Yes?"

"Don't send me to the ward."

The laughter fades from his mouth and eyes. "As long as you don't pull that stunt again, I won't."

My lips twitch. "I won't."

"Is that a promise?"

"It's a promise."

But see, promises are just promises until they're broken. It's then that they become the symbol of betrayal. Words hurt, yes, but actions bleed. When I come back to prison, he's not there. Not Erwin. The other  _he_. I don't know why I was hopeful. I don't know why I thought he would be here to greet me. I don't know why, for a single second, I believed he would keep his word, because he's gone, and he's  _been_  gone. He's not coming back. That's the truth. Yet — a small, stupid part of me still hoped.

It's all right, though. I don't need him to thrive.

My name is Levi.

L-I-V-E.

I'm meant to live within these prison walls, and he's meant to live outside. He is Sunshine, after all, and sunshine belongs to the outer world. — That's the idea I try to accept, but what my mind accepts, my chest denies.  _I want to go outside_. I want to bask in the sun, and I want to see the ocean. I want to reach _infinity_ , but I can't when I'm confined by these walls.

At least I have Erwin.

And at least I'm not the only one stuck here.

When you're not focused on just one person, you begin noticing everyone else around you. That bald guy that used to sit at my table with Jean and Auruo? He's still here. He's just with another group of people, and by word of mouth, I find out that his name is Connie. Also by word of mouth, I learn that Auruo's hanging around the cooks. I don't know what the hell he's trying to achieve, but it is what it is.

Speaking of the cooks, I visit them for the first time in a long time. They don't look at me the same, and they certainly don't treat me the same, but they remember my name, and that's all that matters.

"How have you been?" I don't remember their names either, but I remember the blond one's the nicer one. He's also the one who offered to teach me how to use a knife.

"I'm fine."

He points to me with the blade he's holding. "Does that hurt?"

I look down at the red blotches that had bloomed along my arms. "Not as much as before." It's been a couple of weeks since my leave from the hospital. The doctor told me I had second degree burns and I would be all right — I just had to be careful. And well, let's say that he didn't define what 'careful' meant, so my first shower was literally hell on earth. That was at least a week ago though, so by this point, I'm cautious but I'm fine.

"Looks like it hurts." He goes back to chopping his greens. "You need something?"

"I heard you got a new hand."

The guy snickers. "We did. Auruo. Don't tell him I said this, but he talks a bit too much. I don't think Gunther likes him."

"I don't," the cook from the other side of the room says. "He talks too much for his own good."

"He does," I agree. At least that's something all of us can agree on. "Hey, uh — is there anything I can help out with?" My own voice asking that question takes me by surprise. This is the very place Sunshine's known best for. The old me would have avoided this area like the plague, but this me isn't holding back. I remember him bringing me in for the first time and introducing me to everyone here. I remember everyone here telling me how much he spoke of my name. Those were the times. Those were the memories. And now, I want to make new memories so I can replace the old ones.

I'm going to start anew, and I'm going to start _here_.

The first guy looks at me again, then he beckons me over. "Can I put you on cleaning and washing duty? I can't trust you with the stove yet." His eyes flicker over my body.

I feel heat embracing my skin, but I blame the burns. "Does everyone know?"

"Setting yourself on fire is sort of a big thing," Gunther mutters as he passes me a basket of vegetables.

"But we're glad you're all right," the first guy says, shooting Gunther a look. "He's still a bit pissy since we lost our best hand, but hey, we have you now so get to washing those veggies." He nods at the basket in my hand. "And whenever you feel like learning, I can teach you how to properly use a knife."

Going back to the kitchen is the first step towards becoming normal again. The second step isn't as easy, because pride's still keeping me on the edge. I wanted a cell to myself, and Erwin agreed for me to have one as long as I agreed to being supervised throughout the night. Turns out, the guard assigned to look after me is the very guard who saved my life. His name is Mike, and he doesn't talk much. At times, he would make snide comments about someone's body odor, but aside from that, he's not bad. Then again, I haven't exactly jerked off or fucked anyone in front of him, so I don't know if he's one of those perverted bastards. (Not that it really matters.)

The second step is to talk to him. Not the casual talk, but a real conversation. It's been at least a month since I came back, and the most I've said to him is "I just need to take a piss, goddamn." That was on the third night, and I actually did have to piss.

Other than that time, he doesn't talk to me. I don't talk to him. It's a fine relationship, and I don't want to ruin it with my blabber, but I  _need_  to say something. I can't move on knowing that I owe someone.

It's maybe the week after the first month that I finally suppress my pride enough to call him out. "Hey." It's also past curfew, so I should be asleep, but instead, I'm lying here in the dark, pondering over step two. "Hey, Mike."

"Hm?"

I've strangled many people, but I can't strangle my pride. It catches the wind in my throat, and for a moment, I'm rendered silent.

He speaks up: "You know you're not alone."

I want to argue that I am — that no one has been through what I've been through — but it's not my place to argue with him. He saved me. The least I can do is be grateful.

So fuck pride.

"Thanks," I tell him. He's the second person to receive my thanks.

"It wasn't a problem."

Step two:  _complete_.

"Hey," he begins a moment later. "What can I call you by?"

"Levi," I say. "My name is Levi."

And that's the start of going back. Back before the time I played with fire. Back before the time I met Sunshine. Back before then and then and then and — back to the time when I was young and free, when I had no worries other than the broken TV set. Back to the time when I knew nothing, when I felt nothing. Back to  _infinity_. — But how about letting go? How about the start of going forward and not looking back? That sounds better. That sounds much better.

Moving on is easy when the past's forgotten, but the moment something from the past strikes, moving on becomes the hardest task.

It's been one month.

Two months.

Then three, four, five months.

I lose track of time after that, but time here is limited to 250 years. Mike reads to me sometimes. Erd teaches me the basics of using a knife properly. And Erwin — well, Erwin's Erwin. We don't talk much, but when we get started, we don't stop. Or at least, I don't stop. I talk about this, and I talk about that, and everything's all right until one day, Mike comes to me and tells me —

"You have a visitor."

And that's the start of my fall.

"What?"

" _A visitor_ ," he repeats. "I'm to escort you there."

That's — strange. I've never had a visitor before.  _No_. I shouldn't have visitors. Everyone I know is dead. And if, by chance, their ghost is still on earth, they shouldn't know that I'm here. Who is this visitor — ? My attorney? What does she want? (Maybe I've struck luck, maybe I'm getting a pardon for my crimes — or maybe I'm getting in trouble for my other crimes, maybe —)

 _But it's not my attorney_.

It's not anyone in the law enforcement either.

Rather, it's a man. It's a man on the other side of the glass who picks up the phone and gestures for me to do the same. It's a man who looks familiar. _Too_ familiar.

So I pick up the phone from my side, and I press it against my ear.

"You have ten minutes," Mike tells me before stepping away to allow privacy.

 _Ten minutes_.

(Moving on is easy when the past's forgotten —)

The man leans closer to the glass that separates us, and he opens his mouth and says,

(— but the moment something from the past strikes, moving on becomes the hardest task.)

"Levi."

The way he says my name is all too familiar. And I hate it. I hate it so much. I want to hang up, I want to hurl the phone at the glass and break it — break his pretty face and his petty lies. I want to destroy him. I want to wring his neck again and show him what he has done, and what he's going to do if he doesn't leave now, if he doesn't keep his mouth closed,  _if he doesn't_  —

" _It's been awhile_."

He says that, and I hit rock bottom. There's no going forward. There's no climbing back up. I'm fucked. I'm seriously fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update: whoa this chap was just a hot mess (no pun intended, i swear)


	16. Ignorance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tick, tock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to say that i'm sosososo sorry for this super late update! i was just overwhelmed by college things, ap exams, etc etc and hhhHHH FORGIVE ME ; A;

There was endless time, and it was shared time. He had a life sentence, which was the longest sentence next to mine. That was time, and with that time, we could do an infinite amount of things these prison walls allowed. But right here,  _right now_ , there's no time. There are only ten minutes.

Tick, tock.

 _Ten_.

He puts his left hand up against the glass. I meet it with my right. There are ten fingers, but each finger represents something different. His thumb wishes luck; his index gives directions; his middle lives long and prospers; his ring loves another; his pinky makes promises. Then you have mine. My thumb discourages all; my index accuses others; my middle shows hate; my fourth remains forgotten; my pinky breaks vows. Two opposing hands, two opposing lives.

Tick, tock.

 _Nine_.

Cats have nine lives. It doesn't make them immortal, but it sure makes them hard as hell to kill. I'm on my ninth life. I died the first time when my father left; I died the second when my mother disappeared; the third, when my fosters turned the blind eye; the fourth, when I was staring up at the ceiling, clutching a twenty dollar bill, and letting a faceless man fuck me; the fifth, when I took life away from the woman who gave me life; the sixth, when the prison made me king; the seventh, when I was peering into his green eyes, clinging to his trembling frame, and letting his warmth kiss me goodbye; the eighth, when the flames that ended his parents' lives almost ended mine.

Tick, tock.

 _Eight_.

"I tried to stay away, but I couldn't," he says. When spoken, those eight words are just eight words; when heard, those eight words are eight daggers.

Tick, tock.

 _Seven_.

Let's talk about the seven virtues and their flaws. Chastity, purity.  _Knowledge_. But what's knowledge, if there's no experience? Temperance, self-control.  _Honor_. But what's honor, if there's no sacrifice? Charity, will.  _Generosity_. There's no generosity, if there's always a return. Diligence, persistence.  _Effort_. There's no effort, if there's always a consequence. Patience, peace.  _Mercy_. If you show mercy, you show weakness. Kindness, satisfaction.  _Loyalty_. But if you trust another, you trust to fall. Humility, modesty.  _Bravery_. Even the bravest bear armor. We're not as courageous as we think. There's an illusion that we kill beasts, when in reality, we're only kissing fleas.

Tick, tock.

 _Six_.

He has six different sides: arrogant, content, innocent, angry, wicked, and reserved. Out of those, I like  _reserved_  the least.

Tick, tock.

 _Five_.

"Why did you come back?" I ask.

Tick, tock.

 _Four_.

"I made a promise."

Tick, tock.

 _Three_.

Our lives are divided into three chapters, and in some cases, three acts. There's the  _past_  — the history that shapes your character. Some pasts are better off remembered than reflected. If given a choice, I would choose the former over the latter, because I don't want to forget my past; I just want to forget how it made me feel. Then there's the  _present_  — the making of history that continues to define you as a person. Some live their presents with a half-full hour-glass. Those are the ones who will be happy in the end. Others live their presents with a half-empty hour-glass. Those are the ones who will only achieve contentedness. I don't live my present half-full or half-empty; my hour-glass is broken. Finally, there's the  _future_  — the closing words of your story. And my words are these: if you quote something, make sure to unquote it. Live the final chapter with no regrets.

Tick, tock.

 _Two_.

Once upon a time, he asked me if I believed in love, and I told him I had never cared for anyone (if that's what he meant). Then he leaned in, and I told him " _don't_ ," because I knew what he wanted was only temporary. I should've let him in, but at the same time, I made the right decision of keeping him out. I've hurt him enough. If our relationship was any more than what it is now, then I would've killed him. And I don't want him dead,  _not really_. Despite what my hands have done, and despite the threats I have spewed, I don't want him dead. Because as stupid as it sounds, we're tied together. If he dies, I die — perhaps not physically, but mentally. If I look at it that way, then we're more Romeo and Juliet than Jean and Marco ever were. He's an angel fallen from grace; I'm a demon climbing to infinity. We met in the middle, and when we joined hands, I understood that not all angels are innocent and not all demons are evil. Some angels are demons. Some demons are angels. And that's the sad truth.

Tick, tock.

 _One_.

I know I have one more chance, because he's here, and he's  _now_. But I don't want to fuck it up. One chance doesn't always mean  _fix the past_ ; sometimes it means  _adjust to the future_. Am I ready, though? Yes — and no.  _Yes_ , because I've moved on, and  _no_ , because I only  _think_  I've moved on.

Everything was fine. I was seeing things through a broader perspective, but then he came back — he came back, and  _he consumed me._  I don't know how it happened, I don't know  _why_  it happened, but it happened, and now I'm stuck. I don't know what I want, and I don't know what's best for me.

All I know is that my name is Levi.

"I didn't want to come back," he says, but I hear  _you tried to kill me_. "I thought you would be better off if you just forgot about me, but I felt — I felt  _guilty_. I made a promise, and I came here to take it back." He leans into the phone, as if he's trying to assess my thoughts through my breathing. It doesn't work, because I'm not breathing. " _Will you let me take it back_?"

A heavy lump settles at the base of my throat. Take  _what_  back? The promise or the key? Both? "What difference does it make?" I ask him, even though I know the answer:  _it won't make a difference_. I've already lost the key (it disappeared after that incident). As for the promise — well, promises are just promises until they're broken. There's nothing to do except pick up the fallen pieces, but no one wants to do that. Those fragments contain memories — some good, some bad — and those memories define motive and mentality. They're important, sure, but sometimes, they're better left behind.

His jaw clenches. "It makes a big difference," he says after a while. His eyes pierce my lips and then my hand, which is still foolishly pressed against the smudged glass. "We'll see the ocean together." He makes that promise, and my pinky twitches. It's another promise that will be broken by him but ultimately by me.  _We're going to see the ocean together_. Yet maybe, in the end, the ocean's not really an ocean.

His mouth moves, but I don't hear anything. His eyes flicker, but I don't see his heart. I only see him hang up the phone and stand up, and my stomach churns. It churns, and I feel like it's all coming up and up  _and_  — my throat is clogged, I can't breathe, I can't speak. I can only watch, helpless,  _worthless_ , as he draws away and gives me a saddened look before he starts turning his back to me. Then I hear —

" _Wait_!" It's my voice. "Wait." And I'm telling him to wait, but he doesn't wait. He's done with waiting. He's done with falling back into a familiar pattern. He has broken out. He has moved on. And by the crinkle in his brow and the wrinkle in his smile, I can tell that he has already seen the ocean without me. My stomach lurches at that.  _Again_ , I'm left behind.  _Again_ , I'm left to follow. And to think he was walking beside me —  _to think_  that he would wait whenever I slowed down.

But no, he's gone. He's far ahead, and he's only glancing back to give me a look of pity.

I won't have that anymore. I'm done with waiting. I'm done with being left behind in the shadows of those I've brought into the light. What more, I'm done with doing nothing. I'm done with standing here and letting the distance widen and widen until I'm burden with regrets.  _I'm done with being alone_.

"I'll catch up," I tell him. I know he can't hear me, but I know he understands. He gives me a slight nod, then he leaves. I watch him go, I watch him turn away, and this time, I let him take the lead. His path glistens with light, urging me to follow, empowering me to close the distance between us. And that's what I do: I jog to catch up, to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with him, but then — I hit an invisible wall. I've hit this wall, these flawed prison bars, many times before, but for once, I have the strength to break free. My hands grip the metal and pry them apart, but as I try to step through, my right hand gets caught.

My thumb points down, discouraging me and reminding me that I have  _one chance_  to succeed, and if I fail, then that's it. My index finger accuses the evil in my name, claiming that  _I'm_  the one who's not letting myself go. My middle raises to show hate, to tell others to  _fuck off_  and  _go to hell_  — so that I won't be alone down here. My fourth finger reminds me of the many times I've woken up cold. And last, my pinky breaks every word and every promise I've ever uttered. I won't catch up, because I  _can't_  catch up. I can't cut the chains that bind me to my past. But at the very least, I can lessen the burden by letting things go.

The door closes behind him, and I hear Mike shifting behind me. My right hand finally slips off the dirty glass, but my left shakes when I turn to hang up the disconnected phone. It's not that easy letting go.

Tick, tock.

 _Zero_.

I'm going in circles. Maybe that's why I can't catch up. I walk and I walk, and I think I'm getting somewhere, but in reality, I'm just walking the same path. It's a maze, a never-ending labyrinth, and the only way out is to fly. And see, I already have wings; I just don't know how to use them.

The walk back to my cell is suffocating. Every step I take opens up another eye. I see the dirt and grime, I see the blood and wound. I see the half-emptiness of this prison, and now, all I want to see is the way out. How can I think, even for a moment, that I can thrive here? That this is my kingdom, and this is my throne? If I want to change, I can't change in a place where I'm neck-deep in filth. I need to learn how to fly —  _no_  — I need to  _teach myself_  how to fly, because at this point, I'm the only one who can help myself.

And yet, I don't do anything.

For the remainder of the day, and for the rest of the week, I lie in bed, fantasizing about breaking out and seeing the real sun. But that's all I do. I don't actually escape, because a part of me fears the outside world. I've been there before, and it's harsh. People judge and people hate. Out there, I won't fit in, because I won't belong; in here, I have everything I need to survive. Escaping is perhaps the stupidest idea I've ever considered, but it's one I know I won't regret.

I end up talking to someone about this, and that someone happens to be Auruo (trust me, I didn't go out of my way to find him; he was just there, and well, I took advantage of that). He's the worst person to confide in, because when he gossips, his mouth runs faster than diarrhea — but I don't care as much. If Erwin ends up finding out, then maybe he'll knock some sense into me. That's what I'm hoping for, but that's not what I get. I expect to ramble about escaping until Auruo tells me to shut up. He doesn't do that; instead, he listens for a bit, and then he interjects, " _Hah_? It's not just  _you_  escaping, y'know?"

"What?" I look at him.

He scoffs. "What, the brat didn't tell  _you_?"

"Tell me  _what_?"

Auruo puffs out a cloud of smoke. "He's gonna break  _all_  of us out. Told us that we needed to get  _everyone_  in on it for it to work. We thought he was joking, but then the little shit brings the group of us to his cell and  _bribes us_  with forty-something packs of cigarettes. I was thinking  _why the hell_  not. Free cigarettes."

The corner of my mouth twitches. "He didn't tell me." He mentioned escaping a few times, and he mentioned seeing the ocean together even more, but he never mentioned breaking us out. When did this happen? Better yet, where was I when it happened? How could I be so blind and deaf to something this big being plotted underneath my nose? Furthermore, where the hell did he get forty-something packs of cigarettes? He hadn't been here any longer than a year —  _wait_. Forty-something packs. That's nearly four years worth. There's only one person I know who has been here for four years.  _Me_. Those forty-something packs were mine. The bastard didn't throw them away; he kept them and used them for bribery. He probably used them for protection, too. That explains why no one really messed with him.

It makes sense, and he didn't even have the mind to tell me that.

Or maybe he doesn't want me to know. Maybe he was stringing me all along, and here, I thought he  _cared_. What bullshit. After all I've done — I took him under my wing, I saved his sorry ass, and I gave him two goddamn haircuts —  _after all I've done_ , this is his payment. To think that I've trusted him,  _ha_! What's that prison rule again?  _Don't trust anyone_? I should've followed it. I should've seen his bullshit from the start.

And here, I'm back to the beginning. I really have been walking in circles, and I need to change that, so maybe —  _just maybe_  — it's not bullshit. Maybe he didn't want to tell me for a reason. A good reason. I don't know what that reason is, but maybe —  _just maybe_  — that's been his plan all along.

"Who knows about this?" I ask Auruo.

He shrugs. "How should  _I_  know?  _I mean_ , everyone lit their cigarettes for him."

I open my mouth to ask what the hell he's talking about, but before I can utter a word, the answer dawns down on me.  _The tradition_. Sunshine knew about it. He must've known about it, which means — he lit his cigarette first on purpose. And the prisoners that lit theirs in response were telling him that they knew of the plan —  _no_ , they were telling him that they  _agreed_  with it. I didn't know. All this time, I didn't know. I guess he's not as stupid as he looks.

"What makes you think he'll actually come back?"

Auruo shrugs again. "Dunno.  _I'm_  not counting on it but .. it's a nice thought. Helps me get through another day." That — makes sense. Even if the idea's farfetched, it's still there. It's like the thought of  _him_  coming back for me; I wasn't counting on it, but thinking about it gave me a reason to get out of bed each morning.

But that doesn't explain why he didn't tell me. I should be the first one he told. After all, he's the first one I told when I learned about the rat. He has a reason. He has a motive. I just don't know what that motive is, but I have no qualms that it reflects his insane mentality.

"We'll have to see," I say. I want to end the conversation there, but then my mouth opens, and I ask, "Did he mention me?"  _I'm only curious_ , of course. I wouldn't ask for any other reason. (Who the fuck am I kidding? I want answers.)

"He told us to help you escape or something like that. I dunno." Auruo drops his cigarette and rubs it out with his heel. "Why listen to a stupid  _brat_  like him, anyway?" He looks up at me as if asking for approval, but I only glance away. It's a good question — why listen to someone like that? Perhaps it's because  _he_  gives us hope. Granted, it might be false hope, but it's hope nonetheless, and in this closed off society, a number of us do need that kind of hope.

And to tell them to help  _me_  escape — what does he mean by that? Is he implying that I don't have the physical ability to run and climb over fences? If that's the case, he doesn't know me well. I haven't exactly climbed fences, but I know for certain that, if I try, I'll succeed. Actually, I can do an infinite amount of things; the only reason why I haven't done anything is because I haven't had the heart and mind to  _try_.

"You're not too bad."

" _Hah_?"

I peer back at him. "You talk a lot of shit, but you're not too bad." Because well, without his big mouth, I wouldn't have found out what I should have known.

"Thanks?" It comes out as a squeak, so he clears his throat, throws on an aloof look, and corrects himself, "I mean,  _of course_. Everyone would be left in the dark without me."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Sometimes I forget how annoying he can be. Putting my own cigarette out, I turn to head back inside, but before I can open the door, he calls out to me. I stop.

"He gave a day. March 30th."

"What's today?"

"March 20th."

 _Ten days_. That's ten days. I'm not exactly expecting anything to happen on March 30th, but at the very least, I know I'm going to stay alive until then. Because I'll be counting.

Tick, tock.

 _One_.

I can't sleep. My dreams won't let me.  _Ten days_ , they whisper.  _Ten days_ , they scream. In ten days, I'll break through and breathe the outside air. In just ten days, I'll be free.

Tick, tock.

 _Two_.

It's Visitor Day, and since I don't have any visitors, I hang out in the kitchen. Erd (I finally picked up on his name) and Gunther are there, but they're not doing much. Auruo comes in some time later, and he sits around and talks up a storm. Somehow, the topic of Jean and Marco comes up, and I sit at attention. I don't know much about the two — I only know what I've observed — but from the sounds of it, they have more to their story than the typical.

"They actually went to high school together," Erd says. "Then police academy. They were both offered a job here, but Jean's old man wouldn't let him work in a prison. I don't know why anyone would want to work here, but I'm not one to talk."

"At least you have a choice," Auruo grumbles off to the side.

Ignoring him, I ask Erd, "How do you know this — about them?"

Erd quirks an eyebrow. "Jean used to help out around here, and  _he could talk_  once he got started. I asked him why he's working undercover in a prison instead of a safer environment, and he went on this bullshit spiel about drugs and corruption. I'd be an idiot if I'd believed him."

"He only came here for Marco," Gunther says. "We couldn't go one day without him mentioning that boy's name."  _That's stupid_. Then again, at one point in my life, I couldn't go a day without thinking of fucking Sunshine.

"Your story doesn't make sense." Auruo shifts to lean against the wall. "If he's here for that  _Marco guy_ , then why did he reveal himself?"

I'm the one who replies this time. "People were murdered. They wanted answers. If he didn't give them one, he wouldn't be able to stay." I don't know where that came from. I don't even know why I said anything. I think maybe it's because I know that feeling — that feeling of doing something stupid just so I can keep clinging onto whatever it is I'm clinging onto.

"It wasn't worth it," Gunther continues, turning away from us. "His feelings were unrequited."

Tick, tock.

 _Three_.

Sometimes I wonder if I even have feelings. Words hurt, yes, and actions bleed, but — I don't know how feelings feel. I don't know what it means to love someone. I don't know what it means to care and to caress, to prioritize and protect. I don't know what any of those mean, because I've never had the chance to experience them.

But I'm just lying to myself. I've had that chance. Actually, I've had many chances.

I could've cared for my father. I could've caressed my mother. I could've prioritized Erwin. I could've protected everyone. But most of all, I could've loved  _him_. If I wasn't as fucked up as I was, I could've loved him. I could've had feelings for him. And what's worse? I think it could've been mutual.

Tick, tock.

 _Four_.

I could've experienced happiness.

Tick, tock.

 _Five_.

What am I saying? I have experienced happiness. I experienced it when he read to me, when he brought me food after I pushed it away. I experienced it when he trusted me, when he told me he believed in me. I experienced it when he made his promise to come back, and I experienced it the most when he kept that promise.

But what is it to me? Happiness is only temporary.

Tick, tock.

 _Six_.

It rains, it clears, and for the first time in a while, I look at my reflection. My hair's longer than I thought (apparently the flames didn't spread fast enough), and I didn't do the best job at shaving last time. But this face — it's unfamiliar. The jaw. The eyes. The lips. Have I always looked like this? Is  _this_  what he saw, what he wanted to kiss? He has pretty bad taste, because I look like a dejected frog or something of that nature.

Tick, tock.

 _Seven_.

His lips brush along my jaw, teasing me as my name falls pleasantly from his tongue. His hands ghost down my sides, taunting me as he closes the distance between our two faults. He leaves a chaste kiss on my mouth, then he pulls back, and his eyes flicker up to meet mine. I don't recognize the look in his — it's not lust, I know that for sure, and it's not love either. It's in-between. It's the look of affection, of  _wanting_. He must've seen the same in my eyes, because he leans down and presses his lips to mine again. He tastes different. Like sweetened spices.

Then I wake up, and everything tastes like bitter regrets.

Tick, tock.

 _Eight_.

Erwin's trimming my hair when I mention the date. "It's March 28th." And at that, his hand stills.  _He knows_. Someone must have told him. Either that or he must have heard it from a passing prisoner.

"That's his birthday."

"Hm?"

"March 30th," Erwin clarifies.  _Huh_ , so he didn't choose any random day. He chose his birthday, and he probably chose that day so he could remember the promise he'd made. "I know about it." There's hesitation in Erwin's voice. That's the first time I've ever heard him hesitate. "And I've been thinking. I hold a reputation here — a reputation I've worked hard for. I'm sure you can empathize. I — I can't throw that away. One, because I'll transfer from an office to a cell; and two, because it'll hurt more than it'll help." He goes quiet as he finishes smoothing out the ends of my hair. After some time, it's done.

I reach up and touch the soft locks. It's short, but it's not a bad kind of short. My fingers trail down to my jaw, cleanly shaven. I let out a breath, then I stand with my hand stretched out. There's no hesitation this time; Erwin's razor touches my palm, and I grab it. He sits in my original spot, and he tilts his chin up to look at me. His eyes don't falter; he looks at me,  _through me_ , with no sense of fear. And I like that look. It doesn't reflect disrespect or ignorance; instead, it frames  _trust_.

The shaving cream feels cool against my fingertips, but I pay it no mind when I smear it along his jaw. At one point, I let my hand linger to feel the heat that radiates from his skin. He doesn't even flinch. I should be slightly offended by that, but I'm not. I continue with my task; I slowly run the sharp blade across the side of his face, and though I had thoughts to cut him, to mark up his perfection, I don't —  _I don't_ , because I don't want these hands to destroy anything anymore.

So I quote.

"I wanted to kill you," I tell him. Again, his expression remains solid. (How does he do that?) "I wanted to hate you for having everything and then using me for everything else. I .. You talk a lot of shit, but some of the shit you said meant a lot. So — thanks. For giving me a reason."  _For believing in me_.

And I unquote.

I finish shaving his jaw and proceed to dab the shaving cream away with a towel. When I'm done with that, he stands and walks over to his desk. He doesn't speak, doesn't even show a sign of gratitude, but before I can call him out on it, he reaches into his drawer and pulls something out. A key.  _That_  key. The one I thought I'd lost.

"Mike picked it up. I thought it was best for me to keep it away from you, but it's not mine to keep." He turns around and holds out the key to me. I reach over to grab it, but the moment my fingers come in contact with his palm, his hand closes over mine. I look up. He's not frowning, but he's not smiling either. When I try pulling my hand away, his grip tightens. "I turned it off," he says. I wait for him to explain, but he doesn't utter a thought; all he does is let go. Even though I want to know what that means, I don't question him; I just turn on my heel and start out. As I reach the door, I hear him again. " _Justice is a compromise_ ," he reminds me. "Don't make me regret my decision." A pause. " _Levi_." And my name.

Tick, tock.

 _Nine_.

The prison stirs. I change out of my orange.

Tick, tock.

 _Ten_.

Someone once said "expect the unexpected," and well, some things are just  _too_  unexpected to expect. It happens at wake up call. At first, everyone's confused as fuck, but then the siren goes off, and one of the guards shouts something about an intruder. That breaks the ice. Guards are shoving prisoners into cells — any cell — but then I bear witness to an action I've never seen before: prisoners are pushing those guards aside and prying open the cells and freeing the previously trapped.

A flurry of orange and white and black flies by, and I find myself caught in the middle. There's no sense of direction; there's just yelling and pushing. And then there are gunshots. I run then, but this time, I don't run for cover; I run for the courtyard. It takes effort squeezing through the scrambling bodies, and it takes even more effort to climb the fence when everyone's shaking it. But I make it through with a fall. It hurts, I know it does, but then someone grabs my arm and drags me to my feet, and again I'm running.  _We're running_.

More gunshots. More screaming.

We reach the second fence. I grab it first, and as I lift my foot to take the first step, I feel someone grabbing my waist and hoisting me up. I don't know who it is, but I let their courtesy do its work. I hit the ground on the other side, and at the same time, I hear another gunshot — this time, too close. I glance up, hoping whoever helped me made it over, but no one comes down after me. I clamber onto my feet. I stumble back to assess what's going on, and in the moment I look,  _I see_. Auruo's nursing a wound in his stomach. He's banging on the fence and looking at me with pleading eyes, and I know —  _I know_  I should go back to help him, since he helped me, but another gunshot sends his body crumbling, and I turn, and  _I run_.

I'm not going to die.

Not when someone risked their life for mine.

I run. I don't look back. I run, and I run, and I run. Something grazes the side of my arm; I run in the opposite direction. That same something flies past my ear. I change directions again, but it's the wrong direction. I know this, because all of a sudden, pain blooms in my shoulder. I resist crying out, but I do so anyway. My cry joins the screams of a thousand men. And I realize, at that moment, we're making ourselves known. We're not leaving this world in quiet agony.  _No_. We're going to let them hear our screams.  _We're going to let them hear us_.

The third fence draws near, and in the midst of blurred thoughts, I remember something: the third fence is electrocuted. So this is where it ends.

But wait.

Erwin said something. What was it? —  _I turned it off_.

And then I understand. It's so simple.  _I turned it off_. The fence. The electricity. He turned it off. He's giving me another chance. — I've been wrong about him all along. Maybe he really isn't a monster — but  _what if he is_? What if he said he turned it off, but he really didn't? What if this was just a ploy to get me shocked so I'll be easy to capture? What if —

 _No_.

He trusts me, so the very least I can do is trust him.

I reach forward, I press my hand on the fence, and when I don't go flying from pain, I grab on and haul myself up. It's a long, painful climb. Everything's happening around me — bodies hitting the ground, gunshots whizzing by — everything's going on, but I don't focus on that. I focus on my breathing. My steady but loud breathing. The pain is unbearable. I feel myself slipping. I feel myself falling and falling and —

The sun comes out, and I'm reminded of my words:  _I'll catch up_. I'll catch up, I'll catch up, I'll catch up — I won't fall. Not now. Not when I've made it this far. Not when I'm on the edge of breaking the barrier of who I am and who I  _was_. I will succeed. I will catch up. I will fly.

 _I will fly_.

And I do fly.

My feet hit the cool earth. My hands and arms burn with scratches I've accumulated from each climb. I'm bleeding, but there's no pain now; there's only adrenaline.

So I run. I run for freedom, and I run for peace.

But most of all, I run for myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will be the last chapter! and i'm hoping to publish it this upcoming weekend yeee ~ also the icarus reference is strong with this one whoops and what elseee oh!
> 
> darling [wiley404](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiley404/pseuds/wiley404) has translated [JD into mandarin chinese / 中文](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1525994/chapters/3227480)! :*
> 
> annnd i think that's all i have. thank you all for reading / kudoing / etc! and happy mother's day! ♥♥


	17. Attachment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing holding me back now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one contains a lot of introspection i'm sorry otl
> 
> huge huge HUGE thanks to **jochai** , **scipline** , **holyshitbatman** , and **rivaidere** for looking over this chapter and giving me super helpful pointers (without them, you guys would be reading 2000 words less haha)
> 
> on that, i want to say a personal thank you to **boys-in-leather-straps** for encouraging me and generally being such a sweetheart  <3

Life is full of contradictions. When you think you're going forward, you're actually going back. When you think you understand something, you realize you understand nothing. Life is also full of coincidences. I don't know if it's fate or luck, but some coincidences I've come across are too good to be real.

Following my escape, I run. I run until I collapse and black out. And when I wake up, I'm staring at a ceiling. A lurching motion settles in the pit of my stomach, because I thought — I thought I didn't make it. I thought all I have worked for, everything everyone else had done, had gone to waste.

But that isn't so.

The moment I stir, I hear someone yell in celebration. I don't have a chance to turn my head to see who it is; the person who yelled is already hovering over me.

"You're alive!" I flinch at the volume of her voice. "I thought you were going to die on me. I almost force-fed you."

While she continues to ramble on about a few things, I push myself up from the mattress — and cringe. My shoulder screams in protest, but the bandages muffle those screams. "Did you —" I start, but she interrupts me.

"— I removed the bullet. It's riiight — here!" She fishes out a bullet from her pocket and shows it to me. I almost laugh. It's funny how something so small has such a powerful impact. But I'm not in any mood to laugh. I just take the object, roll it around in the palm of my hand, and clutch it close. I was lucky. If this bullet had landed a few inches over, I would have been dead. "Don't move too much," she says after moments of observing me. "You don't want to reopen the wound."

The last time I heard something like that was at a hospital, but looking around, this place is anything but a hospital. It looks more like a small bedroom with a bed and a chair and nothing else. "Where am I?" I ask her.

"My home." She holds out her hand for the bullet, and I give it back. "I saw you passed out on the side of the road, and I was about to call the cops but you kept mumbling  _no_  and  _don't_ , so I brought you back here and took out the bullet. Granted, I'm no physician — my degree's in law and psychology — but I tried my best to clean out the wound." I don't like how excited she sounds. I don't like how freely she speaks, because least I know, anyone who speaks that freely is a liar. But from the looks of my shoulder and the bullet, I can trust that she did take it out.

But that doesn't mean I trust her. No one in their right mind would pick up some wounded convict off the side of the road. Especially if — wait. What if she doesn't know I'm a criminal? I did change out of my orange the day before the escape, but surely she must have heard about it and connected the points. And if she has a degree in law then —

" _Who are you_?"

"Call me Hanji." She grins.

_Hanji_. That sounds vaguely familiar. I heard it once — a dream? No.  _Recent_. I heard it recently. It's not anyone from the prison — it's not anyone from that hospital —  _no_. If this  Hanji person has a degree in law, that means she practices it.

 _Oh_.

"You're his attorney."

Her grin falters a bit. "Who?"

My mouth opens to answer, but nothing comes out. I ransack my memories for his name, because I know it's there. At an instance, I feel it coming to me, but when I reach out to grab it, I feel it slipping through my fingers. I can't remember what he called himself — yet I remember what I called him. "Sunshine," I tell her. "Green eyes. A bit taller."

The grin is back, and this time, her eyes glisten as she grasps my hands. " _You're Levi_!" And at this moment, I don't doubt that this is, in fact, his attorney. "He told me so much about you! How you killed those three men, how you —" She claps her palms against my cheeks and turns my head from side to side. A squeak escapes her before she continues to say, "—  _almost killed him_! You know, this is such a coincidence! He told me to keep an eye out for a short, dark-haired guy, but I didn't have any picture references or anything, so I thought I was just picking up a random person, but hey, it's actually you!  _Yoohoo_!"

Maybe I have died after all, and this is what hell is.

"I'm getting a headache from hearing you." All right, so the smarter thing to do is to let her keep hooting and hollering (since she did kinda save me), but her hooting and hollering is annoying as fuck. And I'm not in the mood to strangle a bitch.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm just happy you're here and —"

" _Where is he_?"

This time, her grin fades completely. "He's — away, but he'll come back! Hopefully." She pauses for a moment, then turns her head toward the door and mentions something about making tea. Feeling the awkward tension, I let her go. When she comes back minutes later to hand me a cup, I accept it before asking, "Why are you doing this for him?" By this, I mean  _helping me_.

She looks at me, and after moments of eerie silence, she says, "I'm not."

"You're not?"

"I'm doing this for research." She pours herself a cup of tea then sets the teapot on the ground. "The human mind is interesting. We've been studying it for centuries, and we don't even know half of how it works. But you know what's more interesting? The  _criminal_  mind — why convicts do what they do. Not many people have studied intensively in this field, so not many people understand convicts. I chose to become a lawyer so I can work with people like you. I  _want_  to understand your kind —"

"— We're not test subjects for you to study." I want to hurl the cup of scorching hot tea in her face, but I resist the temptation. "Maybe if you stop thinking that we're different, then you'll understand us."

Her lips press into a firm line.

"There's no difference in the human mind and the criminal mind," I continue to say.

"So what are you?"

"What?"

"Are you human — or monster?"

I haven't heard that word in a while. " _Human_ ," I answer. "Nothing else."

"He said the same thing." A small smile peeks from the corners of her mouth. "If you say you're human, I'll treat you like one. You're not a test subject to me. You're just someone I want to understand." She places her hand over mine. "Here, I'll make you a deal. If I let you live here in the comforts of my home, will you let me observe you? I won't do anything you don't want me to do. Promise."

Over time, I have learned the biggest lesson of not trusting those who toss around the word 'promise' carelessly. But what can I do if I don't trust her? She offered me a place to stay, and at this moment, that's what I need to survive.

"Fine," I say, "but answer one more question."

"What is it?"

"Did you honestly believe he was innocent?"

"As his lawyer, yes. As myself, no. The only reason I tried so hard to get him out was because I wanted to study him. He's an interesting one, but like you said, he's no different from you and me. He told me everything, including his plans to break you out. He almost didn't go through with them because of that stunt you pulled. He was scared, and I advised him to stay away, but he went back to you. Do you know why?"

My brow furrows.

"He cares about you. I would even say he loves you." She must have assessed my confused expression, because she continues to explain, "You really don't know how much you mean to him, do you? — You said something to him once that changed him completely. It even changed the way I thought. ' _If feeling that way makes you a monster, then being a monster is okay_.' Do you remember saying that?"

"No."

Not really.

"That's what you told him. In the beginning, he kept calling himself that. He thought he deserved the sentence he got, and he willingly went to prison, because he thought that's where monsters went. You showed him otherwise. That made me think. Innocent and guilty do not define good and bad. He's guilty, but he has a good heart. And I think you have a good heart too."

I never thought of it like that. I've always pinned him as  _not innocent, but pure_. I suppose that's just another way to put it.  _Guilty, but good_. As for me, I want to believe I'm the same, but I can't make that call yet.

"Finish your tea and get some rest." She pats my hand then stands. "We'll continue talking in the morning."

She leaves and shuts the door behind her. I finish the tea with a few drops to spare, and after that, I lie down and let sleep come to me. It doesn't come easy at first; her words fly through my thoughts in flickered intervals. But the more I try to order them, the sleepier I get.

Eventually I stir to a particular sound — or in an instance, a particular voice. There are murmurs at first, but then I hear it: " _Levi_." Plain and clear.

"Sunshine?" I call out. I throw the covers off me and stumble to stand. But as I reach the door, the murmurs stop. My hand freezes.  _That was him_. That was his voice. I know it was. He's out there. He heard me. And I need to hear him again. I need —

The door opens. "Levi, are you all right?" It's Hanji.

I look past her, but I see nothing but an empty living room. "Is he here?" I ask, looking back at her.

"We're the only ones here." Her eyes flicker from my face to my bed. "Why don't you go lie down? I'll bring you some water." Somewhat shaken, I comply to her suggestion.

That's not the last time I hear him, but it's the last time I try focusing on it. Eventually, after a year of running in circles, I choose to leave it behind, and everything becomes part of the background. It's just a sacrifice I have to make in order to move on.

But some things aren't worth the sacrifice. Maybe at that time and at that moment, it was, but right here and right now, it's not. What's the difference between a hero and a fool? A hero reaps the benefits; a fool does not. When I think back one year, two months, three weeks, and four days ago, I realize I'd surrounded myself with fools. They sought to help me whether they wanted to or not, but no one benefited. But perhaps at one point, we all had. Some fools are their own heroes, after all.

A democracy is government ruled by the people. An autocracy is government ruled by one person. What type of system is the prison based on? At that beginning time and at that beginning moment, it was an autocracy. The prisoners saw me as their leader, their Top Dog. They lit their cigarettes out of respect for me. They feared the worst so they followed the best.

But was it really an autocracy? No, it wasn't.

It was a democracy.

And here's why:  _we're the junkyard dogs_. Like trash in a junkyard, we're discarded from society, but like dogs, we're loyal. There's no leader; there has never been one. When we lit our cigarettes, we lit it to pledge our loyalty to each other. We silently swore that whatever one of us did, the rest would follow. This showed when we made our escape. According to  Hanji, the breakout was supposed to happen at night. But something happened, and we all fled at wake up call. Thinking back,  _he_  probably didn't even have to do anything. He just gave us a date, and since we all knew, we all planned for it. When that day came, one of us started and the rest followed. Regardless of everything, in the end, we ruled the prison.

So how did they help me? I want to be fuckin' cheesy and say they gave me a home and a family, but they gave me something better:  _a reason_. They taught me that abandonment didn't equal worthlessness. They showed me that even if I had nothing, I still had myself. They gave me a reason to keep on when everything held me back.

And they made me recognize true fear.

I thought I stood on top. I thought that no one could touch me, that no one would challenge me. Stubbles and his sidekicks proved that wrong. They grabbed me, shook my power, and forced me to fight for myself. It was then I realized that, even though I had power, I was still human. I was still touchable. And what more, I was weak, because I thought I didn't have to be strong. But now I know. I'm no god; I'm nothing special. I've just been through hell a couple of times.

Then there's Auruo who called me out on my own bullshit. Knowing everything doesn't make you a smart person; it only makes you a smartass. And here's the fact: smartasses don't think, because they don't think they need to think. They assume they know everything about everything. Auruo's a smartass, sure, but I'm a bigger smartass. I thought I knew this and that, but when he told me things I'd never considered, I realized that I knew absolutely nothing. I'd been in the dark, and I'd thrived in that darkness. I couldn't accept any other reasoning except for my own, because I couldn't trust anyone but myself. But now I know. I'm no god; I'm nothing special. I've just been deafened by my own screams.

Mike heard those screams. He's probably the only one who had. The last time I was in solitary confinement, he kept checking up on me. Again and again,  _again and again_. I figured he was being nosy (like every other prison guard), but he wasn't; he was keeping an eye on me. He saw the suns I'd drawn, and he saw the words I'd carved. And  _he knew_ , he definitely knew. When I asked for that cigarette and that lighter, he gave them to me. I thought he was stupid enough to leave me behind with both, but that's my smartass thinking. He knew, and  _he stayed_. If it wasn't for him, I would've died. I'm no god; I'm nothing special. I've just been ignorant of the truth.

But Erd and Gunther weren't. They knew the truth. They assessed it, and then they chose to dismiss it from their judgement. They saw me as a human being who made mistakes — terrible ones, at that — but they never saw me as anything less. They probably figured I was in prison for murder, yet they weren't fearful. Gunther pushed me around and made me do things in the kitchen; least he knew, I could have snapped — but I didn't. Erd said he'd teach me how to use a knife, and what more, he spoke to me in a friendly manner. He didn't pry, he didn't probe. He respected me, even though he had every reason not to. I'm no god; I'm nothing special. I've just been blind to my own humanity.

They all represent the past. And each one of them made me recognize a certain fear I had: being powerless, accepting reality, knowing nothing, and letting go.

As for the rest, they represent the future. Erwin was always one step ahead. I didn't like it at first — if anything, I wanted to break him and break him good — but I grew to accept it for the better. He never really had bad intentions, no matter how much I wanted to argue that. What he did was for the best. Even though the best resulted in a few deaths. To this day, I can't figure him out completely, and right here, right now, I'm going to stop trying. Because his place in my past doesn't serve that purpose. I'm not meant to figure him out, and that's fine. All I need to know and remember is that he's the one who kept me alive.

Jean has a different impact. If what Erd and Gunther said's true, then that proves some things aren't worth the sacrifice. Jean chased Marco to the very end. I don't know what their story was before they came to prison, but whatever happened meant  _everything_  to him. He died. They died. And I learned not to chase someone who's already so far ahead.

I learned that after I did my own chasing.

There's a name that's buried deep within my subconscious. I can't recall it, but I know it's there somewhere. I tried — for one year, two months, three weeks, and four days — I tried to remember his name. And all I came up with was Sunshine.

 _Sunshine_.

He gave me wings. He broke me out. And I thought I was free. I  _swore_  I was free. So I started to fly, and I flew towards him, because that's where I wanted to be. I wanted to catch up. I wanted to be  _with_  him. But I was a fool, because I didn't know how to fly, and I flew too close. He melted my wings and sent me spiraling towards the ground.  _What goes up_ , _must come down_.

And when I hit bottom, that's when I realized how much I depended on him.

I didn't break out, not really.

Even though I'm breathing the outside air and walking the outside path, I still feel caged in, trapped in my own prison. I thought that, perhaps if I escaped, I would understand a few things. — And I did. I recognized my fears, I saw my stupidity. But that's not enough. I'm not done chasing. If I can't make my own wings, I'll run. I'll do whatever it takes to catch up. Because I'm not done with him. I haven't told him the things I should've told him. I haven't given him the things I should've given him.

I haven't kissed him once.

What's worse is that he haunts me wherever I go. Sometimes I would hear his voice, but when I turn around, no one's there. Sometimes I would see him from the corners of my eyes, but when I look over, it's someone else. It drives me insane, because he's everywhere in my mind, but he's no where to be found. But I know he's alive. A couple of months ago, while I was helping Hanji cook, the TV in the living room broadcast a news report about finding a lead.

They were talking about the huge prison breakout from a year ago. The reporter mentioned many wounded, multiple dead, and a few missing. Of those wounded was Erwin; of those dead was Auruo; and of those missing was a file. The missing file, according to the report, was a new lead that might reveal information on someone who's involved with the breakout. I thought the missing file was Sunshine's, but when the screen switched to a picture of him and identified him as the intruder who's now missing, I dismissed that thought. (I also dismissed his name. I remember seeing it on the screen. I remember hearing it. But I was too caught up in my own thoughts to digest it.)

At that time, I knew the missing file was mine. And I had no qualms that Erwin destroyed it.

That was then, and now I'm here. Back to the beginning where I stole to steal. The world hasn't changed much. If anything, people care less, which is to my benefit, since I'm not supposed to be roaming the streets. I roam nonetheless. I roam and I roam, and I search and I search until one year, two months, three weeks, and four weeks later, I come across my destination: the ocean.

It's a dark blue that fades into a lighter blue, which periodically fades into a rich white in order to kiss the shore. It's nice, but it's not as nice as I imagined it. When I think of the ocean, I think of endlessness. I think of clear skies and cool breezes. I don't think about the sand, the footprints, the signs that other human life had been here in this exact spot. Because once upon a time, he told me that he wanted to go to the ocean, a place where people haven't really been. I said I wanted to go there too. And in response to that, he said we would go together.

_Together_.

When will that be?

I don't know. It's always questions and questions and questions.

Never answers.

But maybe I'm not meant to find answers. Maybe it's time to make them. — It's not a bad thought. Starting anew. Knowing things. Where can I stop, though, and where can I start?

The setting sun smiles at me from the left. My chest warms in return. That's when I remember what I have. Reaching into my shirt, I pull out the gold charm. His key. I look at it, I let my thumb caress the jagged ridges, and then I do the most ridiculous thing I've ever done: I press my lips to it. A brief touch, a gentle peck. It's a stupid as shit move, but I don't regret it.  _Quote_ , _unquote_. I'm going to live this new life with no regrets.

I remove the necklace from its place, then I look at the ocean. The color's changing with each minute that the sun's setting. I watch. That's all I can do. I watch the sun take its last breath, and then I raise my fist. I raise my fist containing all the words, all the broken promises and unsettled vows, I raise my fist, and I pledge my loyalty to a better life with mended promises and absolute vows.

The wind whistles, the stars stir.

I wind my arm back and —

I throw the key. I watch it soar, I watch it fly towards the sunken sun — and then I watch it dive into the ocean where it will sink with all the burdens of the past. I watch it all, and when the last of the ripples fans out, I lower my hand to my side.

That's it.

The memories, the past, the one thing that proved he's not a figment of my imagination — that he actually existed and that he changed me for the worse and the better — that one thing, I threw away. But no, I don't want to think like that anymore. I don't want to think behind bars.

I'm breaking out.

This time, I'm not going back.

So I didn't throw the key, the past, or the memories away; I just gave them a home.

And now the past is the past. I can walk by here and reflect on it. I can remember everything that happened at the prison and before the prison — but I can't change anything, because I don't have access to the past anymore. It now lives at the bottom of the ocean, and perhaps the currents will eventually carry it away and away —

_Towards infinity_.

But ha, that's bullshit.

Infinity means unreachable, and I know damn well that, if I try, if I actually move on and spread my own wings, then I'll reach anything I want to reach. There's nothing holding me back now.

"So nothing's infinite," I say.

"And nothing's definite either," a voice behind me completes.

**— Fin. —**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S IT ???? YES, THAT'S THE ENDING AAAHHHhhh what am i going to do with my life now omg -- i guess i can start by saying **THANK YOU** to each and every one of my readers. without you guys pushing me forward, i don't think i would've finished this (i'm p well known for not finishing anything hahaha orz)
> 
> and **SPECIAL THANK YOU** to _kairixxxsora16, dirtdoodle, mehotshot, fanspazzness, deniigisukarno, blaqmarquet, elminn, rovescio, theknightskey, jaegart, commanderbolo,_ and _zerotation_ (holy hell where did all of you come from) for drawing art for JD. i honestly didn't expect any, and to have things drawn was like a second birthday gift so thank you so much, all of you -- oh, and you can see their lovely artworks [**here**](http://herlovely.tumblr.com/tagged/.art)!
> 
> if you have any direct questions or w/e about anything, feel free to contact me via [komlin](http://komlin.tumblr.com/) / [herlovely](http://herlovely.tumblr.com/) @ tumblr and **[EDIT: HERE'S A Q&A](http://herlovely.tumblr.com/post/88731498176/junkyard-dogs-q-a)** and hummmm well, i think that's really all i have for you guys
> 
> thank you for reading (esp if you've been reading since the beginning -- it's almost been a year ??? wow i update slow soRRY), commenting, bookmarking, and kudoing! you guys are AMAZING AND I LOVE EVERY ONE OF YOU [ smooches all of ur cheeks ]
> 
> ACIDTOWNS OUT xoxo ♥♥


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